She had listened hungrily, her eyes fixed upon his face.

“And for me?” she questioned.

“For you,” he answered, leaning forward and speaking with a conviction that shook her profoundly, “if you make the sacrifice of your present unhappiness, of your misery, all will be revealed.  The labour which you have shirked, which is now hidden from you, will be disclosed, you will justify your existence by taking your place as an element of the community.  You will be able to say of yourself, at last, ‘I am of use.’”

“You mean—­social work?”

The likeness of this to Mrs. Plimpton’s question struck him.  She had called it “charity.”  How far had they wandered in their teaching from the Revelation of the Master, since it was as new and incomprehensible to these so-called Christians as to Nicodemus himself!

“All Christian work is social, Mrs. Constable, but it is founded on love.  ‘Thou shaft love thy neighbour as thyself.’  You hold your own soul precious, since it is the shrine of God.  And for that reason you hold equally precious your neighbour’s soul.  Love comes first, as revelation, as imparted knowledge, as the divine gist of autonomy—­self-government.  And then one cannot help working, socially, at the task for which we are made by nature most efficient.  And in order to discover what that task is, we must wait.”

“Why did not some one tell me this, when I was young?” she asked—­not speaking to him.  “It seems so simple.”

“It is simple.  The difficult thing is to put it into practice—­the most difficult thing in the world.  Both courage and faith are required, faith that is content to trust as to the nature of the reward.  It is the wisdom of foolishness.  Have you the courage?”

She pressed her hands together.

“Alone—­perhaps I should have.  I don’t know.  But my husband!  I was able to influence him to his destruction, and now I am powerless.  Darkness has closed around me.  He would not—­he will not listen to me.”

“You have tried?”

“I have attempted to talk to him, but the whole of my life contradicts my words.  He cannot see me except as, the woman who drove him into making money.  Sometimes I think he hates me.”

Hodder recalled, as his eyes rested on her compassionately, the sufferings of that other woman in Dalton Street.

“Would you have me desert him—­after all these years?” she whispered.  “I often think he would be happier, even now.”

“I would have you do nothing save that which God himself will reveal to you.  Go home, go into the church and pray—­pray for knowledge.  I think you will find that you are held responsible for your husband.  Pray that that which you have broken, you may mend again.”

“Do you think there is a chance?”

Hodder made a gesture.

“God alone can judge as to the extent of his punishments.”

She got to her feet, wearily.