The vicar lifted his bowed head and began his service.  Every man, woman and child before him responded aloud and with a curious fervour—­not in decorous fear of seeming to thrust themselves before the throne, making too much of their petitions, in the presence of the gentry.  Here and there sobs were to be heard.  Lady Anstruthers followed the service timorously and with tears.  But Betty, kneeling at her side, by the round table in the centre of the great square Stornham pew, which was like a room, bowed her head upon her folded arms, and prayed her own intense, insistent prayer.

“God in Heaven!” was her inward cry.  “God of all the worlds!  Do not let him die.  ‘If ye ask anything in my name that I will do.’  Christ said it.  In the name of Jesus of Nazareth—­do not let him die!  All the worlds are yours—­all the power—­listen to us—­listen to us.  Lord, I believe—­help thou my unbelief.  If this terror robs me of faith, and I pray madly—­forgive, forgive me.  Do not count it against me as sin.  You made him.  He has suffered and been alone.  It is not time—­it is not time yet for him to go.  He has known no joy and no bright thing.  Do not let him go out of the warm world like a blind man.  Do not let him die.  Perhaps this is not prayer, but raging.  Forgive—­forgive!  All power is gone from me.  God of the worlds, and the great winds, and the myriad stars—­do not let him die!”

She knew her thoughts were wild, but their torrent bore her with them into a strange, great silence.  She did not hear the vicar’s words, or the responses of the people.  She was not within the grey stone walls.  She had been drawn away as into the darkness and stillness of the night, and no soul but her own seemed near.  Through the stillness and the dark her praying seemed to call and echo, clamouring again and again.  It must reach Something—­it must be heard, because she cried so loud, though to the human beings about her she seemed kneeling in silence.  She went on and on, repeating her words, changing them, ending and beginning again, pouring forth a flood of appeal.  She thought later that the flood must have been at its highest tide when, singularly, it was stemmed.  Without warning, a wave of awe passed over her which strangely silenced her—­and left her bowed and kneeling, but crying out no more.  The darkness had become still, even as it had not been still before.  Suddenly she cowered as she knelt and held her breath.  Something had drawn a little near.  No thoughts—­no words—­no cries were needed as the great stillness grew and spread, and folded her being within it.  She waited—­only waited.  She did not know how long a time passed before she felt herself drawn back from the silent and shadowy places—­awakening, as it were, to the sounds in the church.

“Our Father,” she began to say, as simply as a child.  “Our Father who art in Heaven—­hallowed be thy name.”  There was a stirring among the congregation, and sounds of feet, as the people began to move down the aisle in reverent slowness.  She caught again the occasional sound of a subdued sob.  Rosalie gently touched her, and she rose, following her out of the big pew and passing down the aisle after the villagers.