darkness。　　He　with　all　the　forces　of　the　Universe　behind　Him。　　He　armed　with　His　eternal　pains　and　penalties；　and　eight…year…old　Joan：　　the　creature　that　He　had　made　in　His　Own　Image　that　He　could　torture　and　destroy。　　Hell　yawned　beneath　her；　but　it　had　to　be　said。　　Somebody　ought　to　tell　Him。
  〃You　are　a　wicked　God；〃　Joan　told　Him。　　〃Yes；　You　are。　　A　cruel；　wicked　God。〃
  And　then　that　she　might　not　see　the　walls　of　the　room　open　before　her；　hear　the　wild　laughter　of　the　thousand　devils　that　were　coming　to　bear　her　off；　she　threw　herself　down；　her　face　hidden　in　the　pillow；　and　clenched　her　hands　and　waited。
  And　suddenly　there　burst　a　song。　　It　was　like　nothing　Joan　had　ever　heard　before。　　So　clear　and　loud　and　near　that　all　the　night　seemed　filled　with　harmony。　　It　sank　into　a　tender　yearning　cry　throbbing　with　passionate　desire；　and　then　it　rose　again　in　thrilling　ecstasy：　　a　song　of　hope；　of　victory。
  Joan；　trembling；　stole　from　her　bed　and　drew　aside　the　blind。　There　was　nothing　to　be　seen　but　the　stars　and　the　dim　shape　of　the　hills。　　But　still　that　song；　filling　the　air　with　its　wild；　triumphant　melody。
  Years　afterwards；　listening　to　the　overture　to　Tannhauser；　there　came　back　to　her　the　memory　of　that　night。　　Ever　through　the　mad　Satanic　discords　she　could　hear；　now　faint；　now　conquering；　the　Pilgrims'　onward　march。　　So　through　the　jangled　discords　of　the　world　one　heard　the　Song　of　Life。　　Through　the　dim　aeons　of　man's　savage　infancy；　through　the　centuries　of　bloodshed　and　of　horror；　through　the　dark　ages　of　tyranny　and　superstition；　through　wrong；　through　cruelty；　through　hate；　heedless　of　doom；　heedless　of　death；　still　the　nightingale's　song：　　〃I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　We　will　build　a　nest。　　We　will　rear　our　brood。　　I　love　you。　I　love　you。　　Life　shall　not　die。〃
  Joan　crept　back　into　bed。　　A　new　wonder　had　come　to　her。　　And　from　that　night　Joan's　belief　in　Mrs。　Munday's　God　began　to　fade；　circumstances　helping。
  Firstly　there　was　the　great　event　of　going　to　school。　　She　was　glad　to　get　away　from　home；　a　massive；　stiffly　furnished　house　in　a　wealthy　suburb　of　Liverpool。　　Her　mother；　since　she　could　remember；　had　been　an　invalid；　rarely　leaving　her　bedroom　till　the　afternoon。　Her　father；　the　owner　of　large　engineering　works；　she　only　saw；　as　a　rule；　at　dinner…time；　when　she　would　come　down　to　dessert。　　It　had　been　different　when　she　was　very　young；　before　her　mother　had　been　taken　ill。　　Then　she　had　been　more　with　them　both。　　She　had　dim　recollections　of　her　father　playing　with　her；　pretending　to　be　a　bear　and　growling　at　her　from　behind　the　sofa。　　And　then　he　would　seize　and　hug　her　and　they　would　both　laugh；　while　he　tossed　her　into　the　air　and　caught　her。　　He　had　looked　so　big　and　handsome。　All　through　her　childhood　there　had　been　the　desire　to　recreate　those　days；　to　spring　into　the　air　and　catch　her　arms　about　his　neck。　　She　could　have　loved　him　dearly　if　he　had　only　let　her。　Once；　seeking　explanation；　she　had　opened　her　heart　a　little　to　Mrs。　Munday。　　It　was　disappointment；　Mrs。　Munday　thought；　that　she　had　not　been　a　boy；　and　with　that　Joan　had　to　content　herself。　Maybe　also　her　mother's　illness　had　helped　to　sadden　him。　　Or　perhaps　it　was　mere　temperament；　as　she　argued　to　herself　later；　for　which　they　were　both　responsible。　　Those　little　tricks　of　coaxing；　of　tenderness；　of　wilfulness；　by　means　of　which　other　girls　wriggled　their　way　so　successfully　into　a　warm　nest　of　cosy　affection：　　she　had　never　been　able　to　employ　them。　　Beneath　her　self…confidence　was　a　shyness；　an　immovable　reserve　that　had　always　prevented　her　from　expressing　her　emotions。　　She　had　inherited　it；　doubtless　enough；　from　him。　　Perhaps　one　day；　between　them；　they　would　break　down　the　barrier；　the　strength　of　which　seemed　to　lie　in　its　very　flimsiness；　its　impalpability。
  And　then　during　college　vacations；　returning　home　with　growing　notions　and　views　of　her　own；　she　had　found　herself　so　often　in　antagonism　with　him。　　His　fierce　puritanism；　so　opposed　to　all　her　enthusiasms。　　Arguing　with　him；　she　might　almost　have　been　listening　to　one　of　his　Cromwellian　ancestors　risen　from　the　dead。　There　had　been　disputes　between　him　and　his　work…people；　and　Joan　had　taken　the　side　of　the　men。　　He　had　not　been　angry　with　her；　but　coldly　contemptuous。　　And　yet；　in　spite　of　it　all；　if　he　had　only　made　a　sign！　　She　wanted　to　fling　herself　crying　into　his　arms　and　shake　himmake　him　listen　to　her　wisdom；　sitting　on　his　knee　with　her　hands　clasped　round　his　neck。　　He　was　not　really　intolerant　and　stupid。　　That　had　been　proved　by　his　letting　her　go　to　a　Church　of　England　school。　　Her　mother　had　expressed　no　wish。　　It　was　he　who　had　selected　it。
  Of　her　mother　she　had　always　stood　somewhat　in　fear；　never　knowing　when　the　mood　of　passionate　affection　would　give　place　to　a　chill　aversion　that　seemed　almost　like　hate。　　Perhaps　it　had　been　good　for　her；　so　she　told　herself　in　after　years；　her　lonely；　unguided　childhood。　　It　had　forced　her　to　think　and　act　for　herself。　　At　school　she　reaped　the　benefit。　　Self…reliant；　confident；　original；　leadership　was　granted　to　her　as　a　natural　prerogative。　　Nature　had　helped　her。　　Nowhere　does　a　young　girl　rule　more　supremely　by　reason　of　her　beauty　than　among　her　fellows。　　Joan　soon　grew　accustomed　to　having　her　boots　put　on　and　taken　off　for　her；　all　her　needs　of　service　anticipated　by　eager　slaves；　contending　with　one　another　for　the　privilege。　　By　giving　a　command；　by　bestowing　a　few　moments　of　her　conversation；　it　was　within　her　power　to　make　some　small　adoring　girl　absurdly　happy　for　the　rest　of　the　day；　while　her　displeasure　would　result　in　tears；　in　fawning　pleadings　for　forgiveness。　　The　homage　did　not　spoil　her。　　Rather　it　helped　to　develop　her。　　She　accepted　it　from　the　beginning　as　in　the　order　of　things。　　Power　had　been　given　to　her。　　It　was　her　duty　to　see　to　it　that　she　did　not　use　it　capriciously；　for　her　own　gratification。　No　conscientious　youthful　queen　could　have　been　more　careful　in　the　distribution　of　her　favoursthat　they　should　be　for　the　encouragement　of　the　deserving；　the　reward　of　virtue；　more　sparing　of　her　frowns；　reserving　them　for　the　rectification　of　error。
  At　Girton　it　was　more　by　force　of　will；　of　brain；　that　she　had　to　make　her　position。　　There　was　more　competition。　　Joan　welcomed　it；　as　giving　more　zest　to　life。　　But　even　there　her　beauty　was　by　no　means　a　negligible　quantity。　　Clever；　brilliant　young　women；　accustomed　to　sweep　aside　all　opposition　with　a　blaze　of　rhetoric；　found　themselves　to　their　irritation　sitting　in　front　of　her　silent；　not　so　much　listening　to　her　as　looking　at　her。　　It　puzzled　them　for　a　time。　　Because　a　girl's　features　are　classical　and　her　colouring　attractive；　surely　that　has　nothing　to　do　with　the　value　of　her　political　views？　　Until　one　of　them　discovered　by　chance　that　it　has。
  〃Well；　what　does　Beauty　think　about　it？〃　this　one　had　asked；　laughing。　　She　had　arrived　at　the　end　of　a　discussion　just　as　Joan　was　leaving　the　room。　　And　then　she　gave　a　long　low　whistle；　feeling　that　she　had　stumbled　upon　the　explanation。　　Beauty；　that　mysterious　force　that　from　the　date　of　creation　has　ruled　the　world；　what　does　It　think？　　Dumb；　passive；　as　a　rule；　exercising　its　influence　unconsciously。　　But　if　it　should　become　intelligent；　active！　　A　Philosopher　has　dreamed　of　the　vast　influence　that　could　be　exercised　by　a　dozen　sincere　men　acting　in　unity。　　Suppose　a　dozen　of　the　most　beautiful　women　in　the　world　could　form　themselves　into　a　league！　　Joan　found　them　late　in　the　evening　still　discussing　it。
  Her　mother　died　suddenly　during　her　last　term；　and　Joan　hurried　back　to　attend　the　funeral。　　Her　father　was　out　when　she　reached　home。　　Joan　changed　her　travel…dusty　clothes；　and　then　went　into　the　room　where　her　mother　lay；　and　closed　the　door。　　She　must　have　been　a　beautiful　woman。　　Now　that　the　fret　and　the　restlessness　had　left　her　it　had　come　back　to　her。　　The　passionate　eyes　were　closed。　Joan　kissed　the　marble　lids；　and　drawing　a　chair　to　the　bedside；　sat　down。　　It　grieved　her　that　she　had　never　loved　her　mothernot　as　one　ought　to　love　one's　mother；　unquestioningly；　unreasoningly；　as　a　natural　instinct。　　For　a　moment　a　strange　thought　came　to　her；　and　swiftly；　almost　guiltily；　she　stole　across；　and　drawing　back　a　corner　of　the　blind；　examined　closely　her　own　features　in　the　glass；　comparing　them　with　the　face　of　the　dead　woman；　thus　called　upon　to　be　a　silent　witness　for　or　against　the　living。　　Joan　drew　a　sigh　of　relief　and　let　fall　the　blind。　　There　could　be　no　misreading　the　evidence。　　Death　had　smoothed　away　the　lines；　given　back　youth。　　It　was　almost　uncanny；　the　likeness　between　them。　　It　might　have　been　her　drowned　sister　lying　there。　　And　they　had　never　known　one　another。　　Had　this　also　been　temperament　again；　keeping　them　apart？　　Why　did　it　imprison　us　each　one　as　in　a　moving　cell；　so　that　we　never　could　stretch　out　our　arms　to　one　another；　except　when　at　rare　intervals　Love　or　Death　would　unlock　for　a　while　the　key？　　Impossible　that　two　beings　should　have　been　so　alike　in　feature　without　being　more　or　less　alike　in　thought　and　feeling。　Whose　fault　had　it　been？　　Surely　her　own；　she　was　so　hideously　calculating。　　Even　Mrs。　Munday；　because