Vandyke looked at him gravely, but did not answer; rose, and walked indolently up and down to keep himself warm.  A lithe, slow figure, a clear face with delicate lips, and careless eyes that saw everything:  the face of a man quick to learn and slow to teach.

“There she comes!” said Knowles, as the lock of the gate rasped.

Holmes had heard the slow step in the snow long before.  A small woman came out and went down the silent street into the road beyond.  Holmes kept his back turned to her, lighting his cigar; the other men watched her eagerly.

“What do you think, Vandyke?” demanded Knowles.  “How will she do?”

“Do for what?”—­resuming his lazy walk.  “You talk as if she were a machine.  It is the way with modern reformers.  Men are so many ploughs and harrows to work on ‘the classes.’  Do for what?”

Knowles flushed hotly.

“The work the Lord has left for her to do.  Do you mean to say there is none to do,—­you, pledged to missionary labor?”

The young man’s face colored.

“I know this street needs paving terribly, Knowles; but I don’t see a boulder in your hands.  Yet the great Taskmaster does not despise the pavers.  He did not give you the spirit and understanding for paving, eh, is that it?  How do you know He gave this Margaret Howth the spirit and understanding of a reformer?  There may be higher work for her to do.”

“Higher!” The old man stood aghast.  “I know your creed, then,—­that the true work for a man or a woman is that which develops their highest nature?”

Vandyke laughed.

“You have a creed-mania, Knowles.  You have a confession of faith ready-made for everybody, but yourself.  I only meant for you to take care what you do.  That woman looks as the Prodigal Son might have done when he began to be in want, and would fain have fed himself with the husks that the swine did eat.”

Knowles got up moodily.

“Whose work is it, then?” he muttered, following the men down the street; for they walked on.  “The world has waited six thousand years for help.  It comes slowly,—­slowly, Vandyke; even through your religion.”

The young man did not answer:  looked up, with quiet, rapt eyes, through the silent city, and the clear gray beyond.  They passed a little church lighted up for evening service:  as if to give a meaning to the old man’s words, they were chanting the one anthem of the world, the Gloria in Excelsis.  Hearing the deep organ-roll, the men stopped outside to listen:  it heaved and sobbed through the night, as if bearing up to God the pain and wrong of countless aching hearts, then was silent, and a single voice swept over the moors in a long, lamentable cry:—­“Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!”

The men stood silent, until the hush was broken by a low murmur:—­“For Thou only art holy.”  Holmes had taken off his hat, unconscious that he did it; he put it on slowly, and walked on.  What was it that Knowles had said to him once about mean and selfish taints on his divine soul?  “For Thou only art holy”:  if there were truth in that!