The girl grew paler and shuddered.  The tall man sustained her with an attitude of infinite sympathy, and seemed to speak words of encouragement.  They were in the mid-stream; the cold flood surged about their waists.  The group sang on: 

   “Beyond the shining and the shading,
   Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon.”

The strong, tender arms of the tall man gently lowered the white form under the cruel water; he staggered a moment in the swift stream, recovered himself, raised her, white as death, and the voices of the wailing tune came: 

   “Love, rest, and home
   Sweet hope!  Lord, tarry not, but come!”

And the tall man, as he struggled to the shore with his almost insensible burden, could be heard above the other voices and the wind and the rush of the waters: 

   “Lord, tarry not, but come!”

The girl was hurried into the carriage, and the group quickly dispersed.  “Well, I’ll be—­” The tender-hearted little wife of the rough man in the crowd who began that sentence did not permit him to finish it.  “That’ll be a case for a doctor right away,” remarked a well-known practitioner who had been looking on.

Margaret and Mr. Lyon walked home in silence.  “I can’t talk about it,” she said.  “It’s such a pitiful world.”

IV

In the evening, at our house, Margaret described the scene in the park.

“It’s dreadful,” was the comment of Miss Forsythe.  “The authorities ought not to permit such a thing.”

“It seemed to me as heroic as pitiful, aunt.  I fear I should be incapable of making such a testimony.”

“But it was so unnecessary.”

“How do we know what is necessary to any poor soul?  What impressed me most strongly was that there is in the world still this longing to suffer physically and endure public scorn for a belief.”

“It may have been a disappointment to the little band,” said Mr. Morgan, “that there was no demonstration from the spectators, that there was no loud jeering, that no snowballs were thrown by the boys.”

“They could hardly expect that,” said I; “the world has become so tolerant that it doesn’t care.”

“I rather think,” Margaret replied, “that the spectators for a moment came under the spell of the hour, and were awed by something supernatural in the endurance of that frail girl.”

“No doubt,” said my wife, after a little pause.  “I believe that there is as much sense of mystery in the world as ever, and as much of what we call faith, only it shows itself eccentrically.  Breaking away from traditions and not going to church have not destroyed the need in the minds of the mass of people for something outside themselves.”