An hour passed.  At the end of it Kate Marcy came out of her room, crossed the street, and knocked at the door of Mr. Bentley’s library.  Hodder happened to be there.

“Come in,” Mr. Bentley said.

She entered, breathless, pale.  Her eyes, which had already lost much of the dissipated look, were alight with exaltation.  Her face bore evidence of the severity of the hour of conflict, and she was perilously near to tears.  She handed Mr. Bentley the money.

“What’s this, Kate?” he asked, in his kindly way.

“It’s what I earned, sir,” she faltered.  “Miss Grower sold the table-cover.  I thought maybe you’d put it aside for me, like you do for the others.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he said.

“Oh, sir, I don’t ever expect to repay you, and Miss Grower and Mr. Hodder!

“Why, you are repaying us,” he replied, cutting her short, “you are making us all very happy.  And Sally tells me at the Exchange they like your work so well they are asking for more.  I shouldn’t have suspected,” he added, with a humorous glance at the rector, “that Mr. Hodder knew so much about embroidery.”

He rose, and put the money in his desk,—­such was his genius for avoiding situations which threatened to become emotional.

“I’ve started another one,” she told them, as she departed.

A few moments later Miss Grower appeared.

“Sally,” said Mr. Bentley, “you’re a wise woman.  I believe I’ve made that remark before.  You have managed that case wonderfully.”

“There was a time,” replied Miss Grower, thoughtfully, when it looked pretty black.  We’ve got a chance with her now, I think.”

“I hope so.  I begin to feel so,” Mr. Bentley declared.

“If we succeed,” Miss Grower went on, “it will be through the heart.  And if we lose her again, it will be through the heart.”

Hodder started at this proof of insight.

“You know her history, Mr. Hodder?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, I don’t.  And I don’t care to.  But the way to get at Kate Marcy, light as she is in some respects, is through her feelings.  And she’s somehow kept ’em alive.  We’ve got to trust her, from now on—­that’s the only way.  And that’s what God does, anyhow.”

This was one of Miss Grover’s rare references to the Deity.

Turning over that phrase in his mind, Hodder went slowly back towards the parish house.  God trusted individuals—­even such as Kate Marcy.  What did that mean?  Individual responsibility!  He repeated it.  Was the world on that principle, then?  It was as though a search-light were flung ahead of him and he saw, dimly, a new order—­a new order in government and religion.  And, as though spoken by a voice out of the past, there sounded in his ears the text of that sermon which had so deeply moved him, “I will arise and go to my Father.”

The church was still open, and under the influence of the same strange excitement which had driven him to walk in the rain so long ago, he entered and went slowly up the marble aisle.  Through the gathering gloom he saw the figure on the cross.  And as he stood gazing at it, a message for which he had been waiting blazed up within him.