The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Faith Healer, by William Vaughn Moody

A large old-fashioned room in Matthew Beeler's farm-house, near a small town in the Middle West. The room is used for dining and for general living purposes. It suggests, in architecture and furnishings, a past of considerable prosperity, which has now given place to more humble living. The house is, in fact, the ancestral home of Mr. Beeler's wife, Mary, born Beardsley, a family of the local farming aristocracy, now decayed. At the rear is a large double window, set in a broad alcove. To the right of the window is the entrance door, which opens upon the side yard, showing bushes, trees, and farm buildings.

In the right wall of the room a door and covered stairway lead to the upper story. Farther forward is a wall cupboard, and a door leading into the kitchen. Opposite this cupboard, in the left-hand wall of the room, is a mantelpiece and grate; farther back a double door, leading to a hall. Off the hall open two bedrooms (not seen), one belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Beeler, the other to Rhoda Williams, a niece of Mrs. Beeler, child of her dead sister.

The room contains, among other articles of furniture, a dining table (with detachable leaves to reduce its bulk when not in use for eating purposes), an invalid's wheel-chair, a low sofa of generous size, and a book-shelf, upon which are arranged the scientific books which Mr. Beeler takes a somewhat untutored but genuine delight in. Tacked upon the wall near by are portraits of scientific men, Darwin and Spencer conspicuous among them, cut from periodicals. Other pictures, including family daguerreotypes and photographs, are variously distributed about the walls. Over the mantel shelf hangs a large map of the United States and Mexico, faded and fly-specked.

As the curtain rises, the room is dark, except for a dull fire in the grate. The ticking of the clock is heard; it strikes six. Martha Beeler, a woman of forty-five, enters from the kitchen, carrying a lighted lamp. She wears a shawl over her shoulders, a print dress, and a kitchen apron. She places the lamp on the table, which is set for breakfast, and puts coal on the grate, which soon flames more brightly.

Matthew Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is not quite dressed, but finishes as he comes in. Martha follows him.

Look here, Mat Beeler! I'm your born sister. Don't try to fool me! You know why your wife didn't sleep last night.

How much time do you want? He's been in this house since Wednesday night, and this is Saturday morning.

She flounces out without answering. He lights lantern, with dubious head-shaking, and holds it up before the print portraits.

The hall door again opens, and Rhoda Williams, a girl of twenty, enters, with Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda is running, with Annie in laughing pursuit.

I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with him. What's his part in the show?

I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not—what you say.

Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of him.

Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can be distinguished.

A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does strange things.

Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then—he—climbs—up—the—rope!

She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind, looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life. There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected.

Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost as if we were in the wilderness.

The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors.

It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another world, to her.

Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the Indians, you told me.

I couldn't make you see it. It's—centuries and centuries from our time.—And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed centuries away from my own life.

I mean—I mean—. Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate and did my daily tasks, but—I wondered sometimes why people didn't see that I was dead, and scream at me.

No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling—. The other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.

When you met me on the road, and walked home with me, and said those few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, the dead dream was shattered, and I began once more to live.

Rhoda goes out by the hall door, wheeling the invalid chair. Martha enters from the kitchen, carrying a steaming coffee-pot and a platter of smoking meat, which she places on the table. Michaelis bows to her.

She goes to the outer door, rings the breakfast bell loudly, and exit to kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, slight of body, with hair just beginning to silver. Her face has the curious refinement which physical suffering sometimes brings. Annie lingers at the door, looking timidly at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. Beeler and takes her hand from the arm of the chair.

He puts her hand gently back on the chair arm. Martha enters with other dishes. She pours out coffee, putting a cup at each plate. Mr. Beeler has entered from the kitchen, and the boy from outside. Beeler, with a glance of annoyance at his wife and Michaelis, sits down at the head of the table. Rhoda pushes Mrs. Beeler's chair to the foot of the table and stands feeding her, eating her own breakfast meanwhile.

Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler's right, Martha opposite. At Mr. Beeler's right is the Indian boy, at his left Annie's vacant chair. Martha beckons to Annie to come to the table, but the child, eyeing the strangers, refuses, taking a chair behind her mother by the mantelpiece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after the meal has progressed for some time in silence.

He helps himself to meat and passes it to the others; the plate goes round the table. There is a constrained silence. Annie tugs at Rhoda's skirt, and asks in dumb show to have her breakfast given her. Rhoda fills the child's plate, with which she retreats to her place by the mantel.

She tries to look around. Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, who looks at her, puzzled.

Michaelis looks up from Annie, who has been whispering in his ear. Beeler nods at Martha in covert approval, as she takes up dishes and goes into the kitchen.

Don't mind my sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It's her way. She means nothing by it.

Don't know as you've got any call to speak for Martha. She generally means what she says, and I guess she means it now. And what's more, I guess I do, too!

Very well. It's none of my business, I reckon, as long as it keeps within reason.

Michaelis, holding Annie's hand, rises, goes to the window, and rolls up the shades, while Rhoda extinguishes the lamp. The fog is still thick, and the light which enters is dull. Rhoda unpins the napkin from her aunt's breast, and wheels her back from the table. The boy crouches down by the grate, Indian fashion. Annie looks at him with shy, half-frightened interest.

She breaks off, seeing Michaelis place his finger on his lips as a signal for her to be silent. Mrs. Beeler turns to Rhoda, puzzled.

Looks again at Rhoda, then dismisses her wonderment, and looks out at the window dreamily.

My child, to-morrow is the most wonderful and the most beautiful day of all the year. The day when—all over the whole world—there is singing in the air, and everything rises into new life and happiness.

Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large tray from the cupboard and has been piling the dishes noiselessly upon it.

Rhoda wheels the chair toward the hall door, which Michaelis opens. Mrs. Beeler gazes at him as she passes.

As they go out, Martha bustles in, gathers up the dish tray and is about to depart, with a vindictive look. At the door she turns, and jerks her head toward the boy.

The boy follows Martha out. Michaelis stands by the window in thought. As Rhoda reënters, he looks up. He speaks significantly, with suppressed excitement.

She removes the cloth from the table, and begins deftly to put the room in order. Michaelis watches her with a kind of vague intentness.

Uncle has spent everything he could earn on them. She has been three times to the mineral baths, once as far as Virginia.

Oh, yes. The pool in the Bible, where once a year an angel troubled the waters, and the sick and the lame and the blind gathered, hoping to be healed.

And whoever first, after the troubling of the waters, stepped in, he was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.

She goes on in a different tone, as if to escape from the embarrassment of her last speech.

Her saying just now she saw the sun. She often says things like that. Have you noticed?

It would make the world a very different—a very strange place, if that were true.

I have been a wanderer, almost a fugitive—. And I never knew it, till now—I never knew it till—I looked into your face!

All my life long I have walked in the light of something to come, some labor, some mission, I have scarcely known what—but I have risen with it and lain down with it, and nothing else has existed for me.—Nothing, until—I lifted my eyes and you stood there. The stars looked down from their places, the earth wheeled on among the stars. Everything was as it had been, and nothing was as it had been; nor ever, ever can it be the same again.

You must not say these things to me. You are—I am not—. You must not think of me so.

Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter tone, as if to relieve the tension of their last words.

Tell me a little of your boyhood.—What was it like—that place where you lived?

A great table of stone, rising five hundred feet out of the endless waste of sand. A little adobe house, halfway up the mesa, with the desert far below and the Indian village far above. A few peach trees, and a spring—a sacred spring, which the Indians worshipped in secret. A little chapel, which my father had built with his own hands. He often spent the night there, praying. And there, one night, he died. I found him in the morning, lying as if in quiet prayer before the altar.

I went away south, into the mountains, and got work on a sheep range. I was a shepherd for five years.

Since then I have—wandered about, working here and there to earn enough to live on.

He sits absorbed in thought without answering. Rhoda continues, after a long pause.

In the fall I would drive the sheep south, through the great basin which sloped down into Mexico, and in the spring back again to the mountains.

There were a few men on the ranges, but they were no more to me than the sheep—not so much.

I had this pocket Bible, that had been my father's. I read that sometimes. But always in a dream, without understanding, without remembering.

Yet there came a time when whole chapters started up in my mind, as plain as if the printed page were before me, and I understood it all, both the outer meaning and the inner.

It was one morning in the fourth spring. We were back in the mountains again. It was lambing time, and I had been up all night. Just before sunrise, I sat down on a rock to rest. Then—it came.

The living Christ!—Standing before me on the mountain, amid the grazing sheep.—With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw Him.

Tell me the rest. What happened to you, after—after what you saw—that morning in the mountains?

The first time it came at night. I was walking on the top of the mountain, in a stony place. It—it was like a wind among the stones.

In the same place, at dawn. The voice said, "Go forth, it is finished!" I looked round me and saw nothing. Then it came again, like a wind among the stones, "Go forth, it is begun!"

I found a man to take my place, and started north. Three days after, I climbed the mesa toward my old home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. They told me that the young son of the chief lay dead in my father's chapel. I sat beside him all day and all night. Just before daylight—

Just before daylight, when the other watchers were asleep, the power of the spirit came strong upon me. I bowed myself upon the boy's body, and prayed. My heart burned within me, for I felt his heart begin to beat! His eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he arose. He that was dead arose and was alive again!

Pause. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings. Michaelis starts, looks about him as if awakened from a dream, then slowly goes toward the hall door. Rhoda follows and detains him.

I have heard that people have lain as long as that in a trance, breathing so lightly that it could not be told, except by holding a glass before the face.

With bent head he goes out. Rhoda stands looking after him until the inner door closes, then sits before the fire in revery. Beeler comes in from the barn. He wears his old fur cap, and holds in one hand a bulky Sunday newspaper, in the other some battered harness, an awl, twine, and wax, which he deposits on the window seat. He lays the paper on the table, and unfolds from it a large colored print, which he holds up and looks at with relish.

These Sunday papers do get up fine supplements. I wouldn't take money for that picture.

Call him heathen if you like! The folks that worshipped him thought he was orthodox, I guess.

He pins up the print, which represents a palmer of crusading times surprised in the midst of a forest by the god Pan.

Well, Pan there, he was a kind of a nature god. The old Romans thought him out, to stand for a lot of things.

Natural things, with plenty of sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants, and frisky animals, and young folks in love.

There he sits playin' Jenny-come-kiss-me on his dod-gasted mouth-organ, when along comes one of them fellows out of a monastery, with religion on the brain. Pikin' for Jerusalem, to get a saint's toe-nail and a splinter of the true cross.

Look at him! Do you think he'll ever get to Jerusalem? Not this trip! He hears the pipes o' Pan. He hears women callin' and fiddles squeakin' love-tunes in the woods. It'll take more than a monk's robe on his back and a shaved head on his shoulders to keep him straight, I reckon. He'll call to mind that young fellows had blood in their veins when Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la! he'll be off to the county fair, to dance ring-around-a-rosy with Matildy Jane!

Like to see our friend Michaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't believe Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed at a girl.

You wouldn't make up bad as Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin' Job, he can't tell the difference between crow's feet and dimples!

Hello! Dan'el come to judgment! Never seen an old maid yet that couldn't squeeze a love story out of a flat-iron.

I may be an old maid, and you may be an old wind-bag, but I've got eyes in my head.

Rises, takes the lamp off the mantel, and during the following cleans and refills it.

Rhody, ain't this religious business rather a new thing with you? Up there in St. Louis, didn't go in for it much up there, did you?

Oh, I gathered, from things I heard, that you cared more about dancin' than about prayin', up there.

That young fellow that was so sweet on you in St. Louis year before last, he wa'n't much in the psalm-singin' line, was he?

Oh, Mary's friends, the Higginses, used to write us about your affairs. We thought it would be a hitch-up, sure as shootin'. Studyin' to be a doctor, wasn't he?

All right, all right, my girl. I've been young myself, and I know youth is touchy as a gumboil when it comes to love affairs. So it's all off, is it?

If you're partial to the pill trade, we've got a brand new doctor in town now. Took old Doctor Martin's place. He'll be up here to see Mary in a day or two, and you can look him over.

Blamed if I can remember. Only seen him once. But I tell you, he's smart as tacks. Chuck full of Jamaica ginger. The very kind I'd have swore you'd take to, a while back, before you lost your fun and your spirit. When I first saw you on your father's farm out in Kansas, you was as wild a little gypsy as I ever set eyes on. I said then to your dad, "There's a filly that'll need a good breakin'." I never thought I'd see you takin' up with these Gospel pedlers.

Martha comes in from the hall and fusses about, dusting, etc. She points in the direction of Mrs. Beeler's room.

They're prayer-meetin' it again. And Mary lyin' there as if she saw the pearly gates openin' before her eyes.

Your mother was the same way, Rhody. The whole Beardsley tribe, for that matter. But Mary was the worst. It begun with Mary as soon as her brother Seth got drowned.

No, it ain't. I won't have any more of that talk around me, do you hear? I put my foot down a year ago.

It's big enough and ugly enough, Heaven knows, but you can put it down as hard as you like, it won't keep a man's sperrit in his grave—not when he's a mind to come out!

And not believe there's something more in these matters than "horse sense" will account for.

You can read it up any day you like. Read that book yonder, chapter called Hallucinations. Pathological, that's what it is, pathological.

Uncle Abe enters. He is an old negro, with gray hair and thin, gray beard. He is somewhat bowed, and carries a stick, but he is not decrepit. His clothes are spattered with mud. Martha enters with him; she is stirring something in a bowl, and during the following continues to do so, though more and more interruptedly and absent-mindedly.

Yo' ol' Uncle keeps on tellin' 'em, dis hyah fawg an' darkness don' mean nothin' 'tall!

His manner grows more and more mysterious; he half closes his eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting singsong.

Knowed it more'n a monf ago, fo' dis hyah blin' worl' lef' de plough in de ploughshare an' de ungroun' wheat betwixen de millstones, and went a-follerin' aftah dis hyah new star outen de Eas', like a bride follerin' aftah de bridegroom!

De Bible kin', dat's what kin'! De kin' what makes de lame fer to walk, and de blin' fer to see, an' de daid fer to riz up outen their daid col' graves. That's what kin'! Mean to say you-all ain' heerd nothin' 'bout him, you po' chillun o' dawkness?

Martha and Beeler look at each other in amazement. Rhoda sits looking at the old negro, white and tense with excitement.

Don't you remember, in the papers, two or three weeks ago? Where was it? Somewheres out West.

Believe I did read some such goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to such nonsense.

Tek keer, Mistah Beeler! Tek keer what you say 'fore dese here cloudy witnesses. Don' you go cuttin' yo'self off from de Kingdom. Nor you, Mis' Martha, nor you, honey. Don' ye do it! It's a-comin'. Yo' ol' Uncle Abe he's seen and heerd.

Mean jes' what I says, honey. Night fo' last, de Healer, he come, like's if he jes' plum' drop from de sky.

An' whar's he gone to? You listen to yo' ol' Uncle Abe a-tellin' you. He ain' gone no-whars! He's jes' meechin' roun' in de fawg, a-waitin' fer de Lawd to call folks. En He's a-callin' 'em! He's a-callin' 'em by tens an' by hundreds. Town's full a'ready, honey. Main Street look jes' lak a fiel' hospital, down Souf durin' de wah!

No, honey; folks says he don' nevah go no-wheres by hisse'f. Always got that thah young man wif 'im what he raise from de daid.

That's what they says, Mis' Martha. Folks calls 'im Laz'rus in ref'ence to de Bible chil' what riz up jes' same way lak', outen de daid col' tomb.

The Indian boy enters from the kitchen, his shoes and trousers spattered with mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at the others, and whispers to Rhoda. Martha bustles forward, hiding her agitation in scolding speech.

The boy hesitates, then goes stolidly out by the stair door. Uncle Abe lifts his arm ecstatically.

That's him! I tell ye that's the chil' what's said "Howdy" to the daid folks down yonder. I'se seen 'im in my dreams, an' now I'se seen 'im wif dese hyah two eyes.—O Lawd, bless dis hyah house o' grace!

I guess it's about time that fellow come out and exploded some of this tomfoolery.

Annie enters from the kitchen, dabbled with dye. She holds two colored eggs in her hands.

Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens the hall door. About to pass out, she stops, drops the eggs with a scream, and runs back, gazing towards the hall as she takes refuge behind Rhoda's skirts.

Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, her face full of intense exaltation. Michaelis comes just behind her, transfigured by spiritual excitement.

Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, reaching out her hand to Annie, who takes it in speechless fright. She bends over and kisses the child's head, then stretches out her other hand to her husband.

It is written that he who has faith, even as a grain of mustard seed—. I have had faith.

Law, you've had faith enough any time these five years, Mary. There was something else wanting, 'pears to me.

There was wanting the word of true belief, saying, "Suffer no more! Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy and healing."

Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman is heard, taking up a hymn. At the sound Michaelis goes to the window. He stands rigid, listening to the hymn to the end of the verse, when other voices join in the chorus. The fog has partially cleared.

It was known you were somewhere near.—They have been gathering for days.—They saw the boy, just now, in the village.

He looks distractedly about. The light has faded from his face, giving place to strong nervous agitation, resembling fear. He speaks as if to himself.

Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, then for a long time at Rhoda. He gathers himself together, and gazes steadfastly before him, as at some unseen presence.

No.—I have waited so long. I have had such deep assurances.—I must not fail. I must not fail.

Mrs. Beeler sits in a low chair near the window. She has ceased reading the Testament, which lies open in her lap.

Uncle Abe sits on the floor with Annie. They are playing with building blocks, piling up and tearing down various ambitious structures. Rhoda enters from outside, with hat and cloak, carrying a large bunch of Easter lilies.

Still sitting up! You're not strong enough yet to do this. See, I've brought you some Easter lilies.

She hands one to Mrs. Beeler. As she takes off her things, she sees the old Negro gazing at her.

He turns again to the child, shaking his head as at some unspoken thought, while Rhoda arranges the flowers in a vase.

The more there are, the greater will be the witness.—Pause. When do you think he will go out to them?

Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet and shawl on, and a large basket in her hand.

I saw your doctor down in the village, and he allowed he'd come up to see you this afternoon. He was all on end about your bein' able to walk.

You better finish packin' the basket. There's a lot o' hungry mouths to feed out yonder.

Exit by hall door. Rhoda continues the preparation of the basket, taking articles from the cupboard and packing them. Annie has climbed on a chair by the picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. She points at the figure of Pan.

Look hyah, chil', you jus' wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis hyah fool pictuh long 'go!

Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down and retreats to her mother's chair. Mrs. Beeler rouses from her revery and strokes her child's head.

Oh, my child, how happy you are to see this while you are so young! You will never forget, will you, dear?

Tell me that whatever happens to you in the world, you won't forget that once, when you were a little girl, you saw the heavens standing open, and felt that God was very near, and full of pity for His children.

I don't know what you're talking about! I can't hardly breathe the way people are in this house.

You will understand, some day, what wonderful things your childish eyes looked on.

Annie retreats to Uncle Abe, who bends over the child and whispers in her ear. She grows amused, and begins to sway as to a tune, then chants.

As she finishes the rhyme she runs out into the hall. Mrs. Beeler begins again to read her Testament. The old negro approaches Mrs. Beeler and Rhoda, and speaks mysteriously.

That thah chil' she's talkin' sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about dis hyah house.

Dunno, Mis' Beeler. I's jes' a ole fool colored pusson, been waitin' fer de great day what de 'Postle done promise. En hyah's de great day 'bout to dawn, an' de Lawd's Chosen 'bout to show Hisse'f in clouds o' glory 'fore de worl', an' lo 'n' behol'—

Mighty funny kin' o' man, like to hev de Black Man lookin' pop-eyed at folks all day an' all night, puttin' de spell on folks!

That's him, shore's yo' born! Jes' what he looks like. I's seen 'im, more'n once.

Yais, ma'am. I's spied 'im, sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de springtime, when de snakes a-runnin', an' de jays a-hollerin', and de crick a-talkin' sassy to hisse'f.

En what you s'pose I heerd him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem scan'lous bluejays?

"Chillun, chillun, they ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no jedgment, they's jes' springtime an' happy days, and folks carryin' on. Whar's yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson? Whar's yo' lil sweet-heart gal?" An' me on'y got religion wintah befo', peekin' roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo' you could say "De Lawd's my Shepherd," kerchunk goes de Black Man in de mud-puddle, change' into a big green bullfrog!

Uncle Abe goes, with puzzled headshakings, towards the kitchen door. He stops to smell the Easter lilies, then raises his head and looks at her again, with puzzled scrutiny.

The old negro stares at her and Rhoda, and goes into the kitchen, feeling his own breast and shaking his head dubiously. Mrs. Beeler looks at the picture.

Rhoda unpins the picture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays it on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, hesitatingly.

I—I know what that old negro says is all foolishness, but—there is something the matter with Mr. Michaelis. Have you noticed?

I thought maybe—Rhoda, I have seen him look at you so strangely! Like—like the Pilgrim in the picture, when he hears that heathen creature playing on the pipe.—You are such a wild creature, or you used to be.

There, you have taken what I said too seriously. It was only a sick woman's imagination.

No, it was the truth. You see it, though you try not to. Even Uncle Abe sees it. Just when Mr. Michaelis most needs his strength, weakness has come upon him.

Rhoda avoids her aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down the girl's face and gazes at it.

My child, this—this troubles me very much. He is different from other men, and you—and you—

Don't be hurt, Rhoda, but—you have a wild nature. You are like your father. I remember when he used to drive over to see sister Jane, with his keen face and eagle eyes, behind his span of wild colts, I used to tremble for my gentle sister. You are just like him, or you used to be.

Rhoda breaks away from her aunt, and takes her hat and cloak. Mrs. Beeler rises with perturbation, and crosses to detain her.

To look at that, now! Seein' you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new start every time.

I'll just lie down on the couch. I want to go out, before dark, and speak to the people.

Mr. Beeler enters from the kitchen and crosses to help his wife. The others give place to him.

Oh Mat, our good days are coming back! I shall be strong and well for you again.

He goes to the alcove, takes the books from the shelf, raises the lid of the window-seat, and throws them in.

They go out by the hall door, Martha, as she lowers the lid of the window-seat, points derisively at the heap.

You'd better help me with this basket. Them folks will starve to death, if the neighborhood round don't give 'em a bite to eat.

I'd like to know what they think we are made of, with butter at twenty-five cents a pound and flour worth its weight in diamonds!

All the neighbors are helping, and none of them with our cause for thankfulness.

That's no sign you should go plasterin' on that butter like you was a bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor!

As she flounces out, Annie enters from the hall. She points with one hand at the retreating Martha, with the other toward her mother's room.

She climbs upon a chair by the table, and fingers the contents of basket as she sings.

Don't, you're hurting me!—He's too red in the face, and looks kind of—insulting—and he wears the most beautiful neckties, and—

Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Beeler's room. He speaks back to Beeler on the threshold.

You're a queer bundle of goods. Always were. Head full of solemn notions about life, and at the same time, when it came to a lark,—Oh, I'm no grandmother, but when you got on your high horse—well!

The great town, the people, the noise, and the lights—after seventeen years of life on a dead prairie, where I'd hardly heard a laugh or seen a happy face!—All the same, the prairie had me still.

I mean that the years I'd spent out there in that endless stretch of earth and sky—.

No, I walk on simple shoe leather and eat mere victuals.—Just the same, it wasn't square of you to clear out that way—vanish into air without a word or a sign.

As he stares at her, his astonishment changes to amusement; he chuckles to himself, then bursts out laughing, as in humorous reminiscence.

Bless my soul! And to think that only a couple of little years ago—Oh, bless my soul!

The stair door opens. Michaelis appears. His face in flushed, his hair disordered, and his whole person expresses a feverish and precarious exaltation.

Rhoda goes to the kitchen door, where she turns. The doctor puts on a pair of nose-glasses and scans Michaelis with interest. He holds out his hand, which Michaelis takes.

You seem to have the call on us professionals, to judge by the number of your clients out yonder.

He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler appears in the hall door; he looks at the group, taken aback.

Door closes. Michaelis, who has followed Littlefield with his eyes, sets down the glass, and turns slowly to Rhoda.

I haven't seen him for nearly two years.—I can't remember much about the person I was, two years ago.

That these lives of ours should be poured like a jelly, from one mould into another, until God Himself cannot remember what they were two years ago, or two hours ago!

He does not answer, but walks nervously about. Rhoda, watching him, speaks, after a silence.

It has never begun. Many times I have thought, "Now," and some man or woman has risen up healed, and looked at me with eyes of prophecy. But a Voice would cry, "On, on!" and I would go forward, driven by a force and a will not my own.—I didn't know what it all meant, but I know now.

It is written there. It is written in letters of fire. My eyes are opened, and I see!

All those places where the hand was lifted for a moment, and the power flowed into me—

He places his finger at various points on the map; these points lie in two transverse lines, between the Mississippi and the Pacific; one line runs roughly north and south, the other east and west.

Look! There was such a place, and there another, and there, and there. And there was one, and there, and there.—Do you see?

You see it too! And do you see what it means—this sign that my feet have marked across the length and breadth of a continent?

—And that crowd of stricken souls out yonder, raised up as by miracle, their broken bodies crying to be healed,—do you see what they mean?

They mean what my aunt said this morning. They mean that your great hour has come.

I knew a young Indian once, a Hopi boy, who made songs and sang them to his people. One evening we sat on the roof of the chief's house and asked him to sing. He shook his head, and went away in the starlight. The next morning, I found him among the rocks under the mesa, with an empty bottle by his side.—He never sang again! Drunkenness had taken him. He never sang again, or made another verse.

The wine of this world! The wine-bowl that crowns the feasting table of the children of this world.

Out there, at this moment, in city and country, souls, thousands upon thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces the cup that holds the wine of heaven, the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting the cups of passion and of love, that crown the feasting table of the children of this earth! Look! The very sky is blood-red with the lifted cups. And we two are in the midst of them. Listen what I sing there, on the hills of light in the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of my beloved!"

A song rises outside, loud and near at hand—Michaelis listens, his expression gradually changing from passionate excitement to brooding distress.

The hall door opens, Dr. Littlefield and a Clergyman, the Rev. John Culpepper, enter. The latter stares inquiringly from Michaelis to the Doctor, who nods affirmatively, and adjusts his glasses.

Behind them comes Mrs. Beeler, supported by her Husband. At the same moment Martha enters from the kitchen, with tea; Uncle Abe and Annie follow.

Mrs. Beeler, as if without hearing this protest, gazes at Michaelis, and advances into the room with a gesture of the arms which causes her supporter to loosen his hold, though he follows slightly behind, to render aid if necessary.

There is a sound of excited voices outside, near at hand, then a sudden trample of footsteps at the entrance door. As Beeler goes hurriedly to the door it bursts open and a young woman with a baby in her arms crowds past him, and stands looking wildly about the room.

The woman gazes from one to another of the men. The old negro points at Michaelis. She advances to him, holding out the child.

He examines the child's face, touches the mother's head tenderly, and signs to Rhoda to take them into the inner room.

Mr. and Mrs. Beeler move toward the entrance door; some of the others start after, some linger, curious to know what will happen to the child. Michaelis turns upon them with a commanding gesture.

The room is cleared except for Littlefield, who goes last, stops in the doorway, closes the door, and approaches Michaelis. He speaks in a friendly and reasonable tone.

I heard you. I want to say a word or two first. For your own sake and for that woman's sake, you'd better listen. You can't do anything for her baby.

By the authority of medical knowledge.—You are a very remarkable man, with a very remarkable gift. In your own field, I take off my hat to you. If you knew yourself as science knows you, you might make the greatest doctor living. Your handling of Mrs. Beeler's case was masterly. But—come right down to it—you didn't work the cure.

No, sir! He whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme—Nature. Or rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself.

and she did the rest. But you can't do the same to everybody. Above all, you can't do it to a baby in arms. There's nothing either here or here,

to get hold of. I'm a modest man, and as I say, in your own field you're a wonder. But in a case like this one—

Not much! The woman wouldn't listen to me. And if she did, and I failed—oh, I'm no miracle worker!—they'd make short work of me, out there.

Michaelis's gaze, as if in spite of himself, goes to the window. He rests his hand on the table, to stop its trembling. Littlefield goes on, watching him with interest.

Nervously speaking, you are a high power machine. The dynamo that runs you is what is called "faith," "religious inspiration," or whatnot. It's a dynamo which nowadays easily gets out of order. Well, my friend, as a doctor, I warn you that your little dynamo is out of order.—In other words, you've lost your grip. You're in a funk.

Rhoda opens the hall door and looks anxiously at the two. Michaelis approaches her with averted eyes. As he is about to pass out, she speaks timidly.

She watches him until the inner door shuts. She and Littlefield confront each other in silence for a moment across the width of the room.

You make up well as one of the Wise Virgins, whose lamps are trimmed and burning for the bridegroom to pass by. I hope that personage won't disappoint you, nor the several hundred others, out yonder, whose lamps are trimmed and burning.

The outer door opens. Mrs. Beeler enters, supported by her husband, and accompanied by Martha and the Rev. Culpepper, with Uncle Abe following in the rear. Rhoda hastens to her aunt's side.

Ah, Rhoda, I wish you had been out there with me. Such beautiful human faces! Such poor, suffering, believing human faces, lit up by such a wonderful new hope!

To-morrow you will see how right these poor souls are to lift their trust so high.—

They move to the hall door, where Beeler resigns his wife to Rhoda. The two pass out.

Culpepper, Littlefield, and Beeler remain. During the following conversation, Martha lights the lamp, after directing Uncle Abe, by a gesture, to take the provision basket into the kitchen. He does so.

They're just laying siege to you, ain't they? I guess they won't let your man give them the slip, this time—even though you do let him run loose.

Permanent, let us hope. Anyway, it's a very remarkable case. Astonishing. I've only known one just like it—personally, I mean.

Tight as a drum, no air-holes.—Devilish queer, though—pardon me, Mr. Culpepper—really amazing, the power of the mind over the body.

Don't have to go to professional medicine for cases. They're lying around loose. Why, when I was at Ann Arbor—in a fraternity initiation—we bared a chap's shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker, blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, and—touched him with a piece of ice. A piece of ice, I tell you! What happened? Damned if it—pardon me, Mr. Culpepper—blessed if it didn't burn him—carries the scars to this day. Then there was that case in Denver. Ever hear about that? A young girl, nervous patient. Nails driven through the palms of her hands,—tenpenny nails,—under the hypnotic suggestion that she wasn't being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as big as a bee sting! Fact!

Worked up! Elijah in a chariot of fire, distributing cure-alls as he mounts to glory. They've got their ascension robes on, especially the niggers.

Flippant? By no means! A little light-headed. My profession is attacked. At its very roots, sir.—

If your wife had spent five years helpless in that chair, I guess you'd countenance any proceedings that set her on her feet.

If your wife is the woman she was, she would rather sit helpless forever beside the Rock of Ages, than dance and flaunt herself in the house of idols!

O, I guess she ain't doin' much flauntin' of herself in any house of idols.—You've heard Doctor here say it's all natural enough. Maybe this kind of cure is the coming thing.

The Brother would drive us doctors into the poorhouse, if he could keep up the pace. And you preachers, too, as far as that goes. If he could keep up the pace! Well—

Can't stand the strain.—Oh, I haven't seen him operate, but I'm willing to bet his miracles take it out of him!

Hope you gentlemen will come back again to-night, and soon too. Don't know what'll happen if things go wrong in there.

Martha enters from the kitchen, with a pan of dough, which she sets before the fire to raise.

Haymow ketched. If I hadn't been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been without a roof by now.

Beeler goes out by the kitchen. Martha takes up mechanically her eternal task of setting things to rights—gathering up Annie's toys and arranging the furniture in more precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda enters from the hall with the mother of the sick child, a frail young woman of nervous type. She clings to Rhoda feverishly.

Rhoda sinks in a low easy chair before the fire, and the woman kneels beside her, her face hidden on the chair arm.

You must keep up your courage and your trust. That will help more than anything.

Think of those others out there, who are waiting too, without the glimpse of comfort you've had.

I ain't had no comfort! When I heard him pray for my child, I—I don't know—I kept sayin' to myself—"O God, it's me that's stretchin' out my hands to you, not him. Don't punish me for his cold words!"

Yes, I know it's wrong. I'll try to feel different. It's because I ain't had nothin' to do with religion for so long.—If my baby gets well, I'll make up for it. I'll make up for everything.

The mother goes out. Distant singing is heard. Martha comes to the mantelpiece with matches, which she arranges in the match tray. She looks at Rhoda, who sits with closed eyes.

The hall door opens, and Annie enters. She comes to Martha, and clings nervously to her skirts.

Aunt Martha! I want to stay with you. You're the only person in this house that ain't different. What's the matter with Mamma?

No, I don't. I want her to be like she always has been. She don't seem like my Mamma at all this way. What's the matter with all those people out there? Why don't we have any supper?

She looks at Rhoda, throws a cover over her knees, and draws Annie away, speaking low.

Exeunt. The singing grows louder and nearer. Michaelis enters from the hall. His hair is dishevelled, his collar open, his manner feverish and distraught. He looks closely at Rhoda, sees she is sleeping, then paces the floor nervously, gazing out of the window in the direction of the singing. At length he comes to Rhoda again, and bends over her, studying her face. She starts up, confused and terror-stricken, from her doze.

I thought it was morning; the sun had risen, and—and you were out there, in the midst of the crowd.

You cannot hang the whole issue and meaning of your life upon so slight a thread.

The whole issue and meaning of the world hang on threads as slight. If this one is slight. To the mother it is not slight, nor to the God who put into her eyes, as she looked at me, all the doubt and question of the suffering earth.

You must remember that it is only a little child. Its mind is not open. You cannot influence it—can you?

Once that little life in my hand would have been as clay in the hands of the potter. If I cannot help now, it is because my ministry has been taken from me and given to another, who will be strong where I am weak, and faithful where I am unfaithful.

Tell me this. Speak plainly to me. Is it because of me that your weakness and unfaith have come upon you? Is it because of me?

Before creation, beyond time, God not yet risen from His sleep, you stand and call to me, and I listen in a dream that I dreamed before Eden.

You must not say such things to me.—You must not think of me so.—You must not!

All my life long I have known you, and fled from you, I have heard you singing on the hills of sleep and have fled from you into the waking day. I have seen you in the spring forest, dancing and throwing your webs of sunlight to snare me; on moonlit mountains, laughing and calling; in the streets of crowded cities, beckoning and disappearing in the crowd—and everywhere I have fled from you, holding above my head the sign of God's power in me, my gift and my mission.—What use? What use? It has crumbled, and I do not care!

Oh, don't speak such words, I beseech you. Let me go. This must not, shall not be!

She makes another attempt to escape. He presses upon her until she stands at bay.

You are all that I have feared and shunned and missed on earth, and now I have you, the rest is as nothing.

I know a place out there, high in the great mountains. Heaven-piercing walls of stone, a valley of trees and sweet water in the midst—grass and flowers, such flowers as you have never dreamed could grow.—There we will take our happiness. A year—a month—a day—what matter? We will make a lifetime of each hour!

The deep hush of their embrace is broken by a cry from within. The young mother opens the hall door, in a distraction of terror and grief.

Michaelis and Rhoda draw apart. He stares at the woman, as if not remembering who she is.

She disappears. Rhoda follows, drawing Michaelis, dazed and half resisting, with her. The room remains vacant for a short time, the stage held by distant singing. Beeler enters from the kitchen. There is a knock at the outer door, which he opens. Littlefield, Culpepper, and Uncle Abe enter.

Your man hasn't vamoosed, has he? Uncle Abe here says he saw the Indian boy slipping by in the fog.

Put dis hyar han' right frough him!—Shore's you're bo'n. Right plum' frough 'im whar he lives.

Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. She is in a state of vague alarm. Her husband hastens to help her.

She breaks off, as a murmur of voices rises outside. There is a sound of stumbling and crowding on the outer steps, and violent knocking. The outer door is forced open, and a crowd of excited people is about to pour into the room. Beeler, the Doctor, and the Preacher are able to force the crowd back only after several have made an entrance.

Where is he?—They say he's gone away. We seen his boy makin' for the woods.—Oh, it's not true! Make him come out.

Rhoda has entered from the hall, and Martha from the kitchen. The two women support Mrs. Beeler, who remains standing, the fear deepening in her face.

Michaelis appears in the hall door. There is a low murmur of excitement, expectation, and awe among the people crowded in the entrance. Beeler crosses to help his wife, and the other men step to one side, leaving Michaelis to confront the crowd alone. Confused, half-whispered exclamations:

A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, lifts her hands and cries again, this time in a voice ecstatic and piercing.

His enemies are scattered! Year after year I have heard His voice calling me—and year after year I have said, "Show me the way." And He showed me the way. He brought me to this house, and He raised up the believing multitude around me. But in that hour I failed Him, I failed Him. He has smitten me, as His enemies are smitten.—As a whirlwind He has scattered me and taken my strength from me forever.

In yonder room a child lies dead on its mother's knees, and the mother's eyes follow me with curses.

At the news of the child's death, Mrs. Beeler has sunk with a low moan into a chair, where she lies white and motionless. Michaelis turns to her.

Despair not, for another will come, and another and yet another, to show you the way. But as for me—

He sinks down by the table, and gazes before him, muttering in a tragic whisper.

The next morning, just before sunrise. Both door and windows are open, and a light breeze sways the curtains. Outside is a tree-shaded and vine-clad porch, with balustrade, beyond which is a tangle of flowering bushes and fruit trees in bloom. The effect is of a rich warm dawn—a sudden onset of summer weather after a bleak spring.

Beeler, with Uncle Abe looking on, is busy putting up the pictures which he has taken down in the preceding act. Martha enters from the hall.

Yes. Wants to go out on the porch and watch the sun rise, same as she's done every Easter morning since Seth died.

Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off as she is.—A reg'lar old-fashioned, sunshiny, blossomy spring mornin'—summer here with a jump and fine growin' weather.

You wa'n't so sure yesterday, when you saw your wife stand up on her two dead feet and walk.

You women don't want things explained, any more'n Abe here! You prefer hocus-pocus. And nothin' will teach you. Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis flunk his job miserable. Sees Mary go down like a woman shot, hands and legs paralyzed again,—Doctor says, for good, this time. And what does the girl do about it? Spends the night out yonder laborin' with them benighted sick folks, tellin' 'em the healer will make good. Lots of makin' good he'll do!

Still as a stone! I'd rather have him ragin' round same as yesterday, like a lion with the epizoötic.

He's a dead one. Rhody might as well give up tryin' to make folks think different.

Marthy, I don't want it to get out, but you're a plum' luny sentimental old maid fool!

Uncle Abe has been hovering, with superstitions interest, near the picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. With side glances at it, he speaks, taking advantage of the lull in conversation which follows Beeler's outburst.

It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but—Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's sake give me that thar devil—pictuh!

Mars Beelah, you give it to me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle Abe kin have it, to hang up in his ole cabin.

Thank ye, Mistah Beelah, thank ye. I'll wo'k fur ye and I'll slave fur ye, long as the worl' stan's. Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer aftah all. Maybe de chariot's comin' down in de fiery clouds fo' great while. An' what'll yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin'? He'll be on his knees 'fore a big roarin' fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' red-hot needles right plum' frough dis heah black devil's breas' bone! I'se got him now! I'll fix'm.

Put yo' black spell on the Lawd's chosen, would ye? I'se got ye. I'll make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," right out'n yo' ugly black mouf!

There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.

Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and his goin's on!

Couldn't stand the strain. Bit off more'n he could chaw, in the healin' line.—Never looked at Rhody.

Looked at her till he couldn't see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or the other place.

You're dead wrong. I tell you he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her line.—By the way, did you give the Doctor a snack to stay his stomach?

Done nothin' but feed him all night long. Seems to be mighty exhaustin' work to tend a sick baby.

Not likely. But he thinks he will, if fed reg'lar.—What do you call that trance the baby's in?

Beeler goes out on the porch and disappears. Martha continues her task of tidying up the room. Michaelis enters from the stair, carrying his hat and a foot-traveller's knapsack. Martha regards him with curiosity, tempered now by feminine sympathy with the defeated.

Hope you ain't off. Don't mind sayin' the way you acted was human decent, sendin' for Doctor when you found the baby wa'n't dead, an' you wa'n't no healer any more.

Martha makes a disconsolate gesture, implying that there is little or no hope. Michaelis turns away with bent head. Annie enters from the kitchen. Michaelis holds out his hand to her, and she takes it with shy hesitation.

Guess you'd like to know where Rhody is, wouldn't you? She's where she's been all night,—out yonder with the sick folks.

Feedin' 'em, first off, an' then heart'nin' of 'em up. That's a purty hard job, I reckon; but it's the way o' women when they feel like she does.

Michaelis sinks in a chair, drawing Annie to him. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings; Martha goes out by the hall door. Annie watches his bent head in silence for a moment.

You know ... the magic rope.—Ain't you ever going to climb up in the sky again?

By some one who can climb up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet never leave the earth, the cities, and the people.

He says that first thing you know, everything will be going up in the air, towns and people and everything.

Runs out into the hall, balancing her arms above her head and gazing up laughingly.

You will tell me the whole truth, and I will tell you the same. But that will be for later. Come! Come away with me, into the new life.

A life rooted in the failure of all that life has meant to you from the beginning!

You do not know that, even yet. You know it now less than ever—what your life is, what it means to you, what it means to the world.

To the world it can mean nothing. That is ended. But to us it can mean happiness. Let us make haste to gather it. Come!

I was there, and saw all the beauty of it, all the peace. But one thing was not there, and for lack of it, in a little while the beauty faded and the peace was gone.

Because I have loved you more than the visions that came to me in desert places, more than the powers that fell upon me at the bedside of the sick, more than the spirit hands and spirit voices that have guided me on my way.

What of the sick and suffering out yonder, who are waiting and hoping against hope? What of them?

Doesn't it seem strange that the love of a woman entering into your heart should take away such a dream as that?

But if your love had fallen, by some sad chance, upon a woman who was not worthy of love?

You know less than nothing of me. You have not asked me a single question about my life.

In the first hour of our meeting, and all the hours of the next day, you swept me along and lifted me above myself, like a strong mind. I didn't know what you were. I didn't know why I was happy and exalted. It was so long since I had been happy, and I had never been as happy as that, or anything like it. Then, yesterday morning, came the revelation of what you were, like a blinding light out of the sky! And while I stood dazed, trembling, I saw something descend upon you like a shadow. You loved me, and that love was dreadful to you. You thought it was so because I was a woman and stole your spirit's strength away. But it was not that. It was because I was a wicked woman.

Yes, I tried to go away. You wouldn't let me go. Then I tried to tell you the truth. I knew why I took your strength away, and I had nerved myself to tell you why. But you began to speak—those wild words. I could not resist you. You took me in your arms; and all the power of your soul went from you, and your life went crashing down in darkness.

I was young then, wild-hearted, pitifully ignorant. I thought that love had come to me. Girls are so eager for love. They snatch at the shadow of it.—That is what I did.—I am not trying to plead for myself.—Some things are not to be forgiven.—Somewhere in my nature there was a taint—a plague-spot.—If life is given me, I shall find it and root it out. I only ask for time to do that. But meanwhile I have done what I could. I have told you the truth. I have set you free. I have given you back your mission.

Dr. Littlefield enters, carrying his hat and medicine case. He looks sharply at Rhoda, then turns to Michaelis. His manner towards him is politely contemptuous, toward Rhoda it is full of covert passion, modified by his habitual cynicism and satire.

Glad to accommodate a fellow practitioner, even if he is in a side line. Some folks think your way of business is a little shady, but Lord, if they knew the secrets of our charnel-house!

Done for. I said I was worth a million of you in a case like this, but I didn't realize how far things had gone. The next time, call me in a little sooner.

He puts the note pad in his pocket, and turns to Rhoda. He speaks in a tone which implies command, under the veil of request.

I have no time to waste, and I shall not stop to mince my words. You are coming with me, and you are coming now.

'Pon my honor! "Who is this man?" "Remove the worm!" Decidedly tart, from a miracle-monger in a state of bankruptcy.

Well, since the lady can't keep her secrets to herself, this is the man. Very painful, no doubt, but these little things will happen.

I should have chosen a more secluded nook to say this in, but you're skittish, as I have learned to my cost, and likely to bolt. What I want to say is, don't bolt. It won't do you any good.—I've found you once, and I'll find you again, no matter what rabbit's hole you dodge into.

This ain't George Littlefield, M.D., talking now. It's the caveman of Borneo. He's got arms as long as rakes, and teeth that are a caution.—Look out for him!

Your arms and teeth are long enough, and eager enough to do damage, but they will not avail you here. This girl is in other keeping, and I dare to say, better.

Look here, Rho, be sensible. I'm tired of this hole of a town already. We'll go west and renew our youth. Country's big, and nobody to meddle. You'll flourish like a green bay tree.

Confound it, if you're so set on it, I'll marry you! Say yes, and let John the Baptist here give us his blessing. Speak up. Is it a go?—Till death us do part.

Indeed! My advice to you is, make tracks for your starvation desert. A parcel of locoed Indians are about right for a busted prophet.

What I am is no matter. What this girl is, though you lived a thousand years, you would never have the grace to imagine. She gave you her young love, in childish blindness, not knowing what she did, and you killed it idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its frail victim, for sport. You find her again, still weak and bleeding from her wounds, and you fling her marriage, in words whose every syllable is an insult. Marriage! When every fibre of her nature must cry out against you, if she is woman. Take your words and your looks from her, and that instantly, or you will curse the day you ever brought your evil presence into her life.

Instantly, I say, or by the wrath of God your wretched soul, if you have one, shall go this hour to its account!

Martha enters from the hall, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in the invalid chair. She lies lower than in the first act, her manner is weaker and more dejected. Rhoda, whose back is turned, goes on as the two women enter.

I deserve to suffer, but it will always be sweet to me that in my need you defended me, and gave me back my courage.

Martha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes out. Mrs. Beeler looks up at Rhoda anxiously.

Ah, no! She needs help. She cannot bear it that this disaster has come, through her. It has made her morbid. She says things about herself, that make me tremble. Has she spoken to you—about herself?

That is good. Young people, when they are generous, always lay disaster at their own door.

She kisses Rhoda. The girl goes into the porch, where she lingers a moment, then disappears. Mrs. Beeler sinks back in her chair again, overtaken by despondency.

Isn't it strange that I should be lying here again, and all those poor people waking up into a new day that is no new day at all, but the old weary day they have known so long? Isn't it strange, and sad?

You ask me that?—Is there—any hope? Oh, don't deceive me—now! I couldn't bear it now!—Is there any hope?

She looks out at the open window, where the spring breeze lightly wafts the curtains.

No, it is not the lilies either. If it were anyone else, I should be ashamed to say what I think.

It is like—it is like some kindness in the air, some new-born happiness—or a new hope rising. Now you will think I am—not quite right in my mind, as Mat does, and Martha!

Mrs. Beeler, there is such a perfume about us this beautiful Easter morning. You perceive it, with senses which suffering and a pure soul have made fine beyond the measure of woman. There is a kindness in the air, new-born happiness, and new-risen hope.

From mine, from Rhoda's heart, though she knows it not, from yours, and soon, by God's mercy, from the heart of this waiting multitude.

The song, though still distant, grows louder. Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis and gazes intently into his face.

The light has come into your face again! You are—you are—Oh, my brother, what has come to you?

I have shaken off my burden. Do you shake off yours. What is pain but a kind of selfishness? What is disease but a kind of sin? Lay your suffering and your sickness from you as an out-worn garment. Rise up! It is Easter morning. One comes, needing you. Rise up and welcome her!

So different from yesterday. I was still weak then, and my limbs were heavy. Now I feel as if wings were on my shoulders.

She looks toward the outer door, and listens to the singing, now risen to a more joyful strain.

She takes a lily from the vase, and lifting it above her head, goes out through the porch, which is now flooded with sunshine. As she goes out she says:

You delivered me, yes. But not as you dream. Yesterday when the multitude began to gather, the thing I had been waiting for all my life was there, and I—because of you—I was not ready. In that blind hour my life sank in ruin.—I had thought love denied to such as had my work to do, and in the darkness of that thought disaster overwhelmed me.—I have come to know that God does not deny love to any of his children, but gives it as a beautiful and simple gift to them all.—Upon each head be the use that is made of it!

A little while ago you told me your life's bitter story. I tasted your struggle, went down with you into the depths of your anguish, and in those depths,—the miracle! Behold, once more the stars looked down upon me from their places, and I stood wondering as a child wonders. Out of those depths arose new-born happiness and new-risen hope. For in those star-lit depths of pain and grief, I had found at last true love. You needed me. You needed all the powers I had thrown away for your sake. You needed what the whole world needs—healing, healing, and as I rose to meet that need, the power that I had lost poured back into my soul.

I looked into your eyes once, and they were terrible as an army with banners. I look again now, and I see they are only a girl's eyes, very weak, very pitiful. I told you of a place, high in the great mountains. I tell you now of another place higher yet, in more mysterious mountains. Let us go there together, step by step, from faith to faith, and from strength to strength, for I see depths of life open and heights of love come out, which I never dreamed of till now!

The song rises to a great hymn, of martial and joyous rhythm. They go together to the threshold. They look at each other in silence. Rhoda speaks, with suppressed meaning.

"This play stands as a noteworthy achievement in the history of American dramatic literature, not alone as a drama of absorbing interest and significance, but as a distinct achievement from a literary point of view. It is a pleasure to read the crisp, admirable English, a prose at once vigorous, clear, and balanced. In the cold black and white of print and paper, without the accessories of the stage or the personality of actors to help illusion or enforce the story told, the real strength of the drama is most impressive. Mr. Moody has long been known as a poet of unusual gifts; he has now proven himself a dramatist of marked ability."—Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

"It is a privilege to read at leisure and to examine in detail a play which, when presented upon the boards, sweeps the auditor along in a whirlwind of emotion.... The triumph of nature, with its impulse, its health, its essential sanity and rightness, over the cryptic formulas of convention and Puritanism, marks the meaning of the play.... Yet because it is a great drama, it may mean that to one and quite another thing to another, but meaning this, or meaning that, it must make, inevitably, an indelible impression upon any one interested in the vitality and evolution of the American drama."—Chicago Tribune.

"This play is in a class by itself because it has high literary merit aside from great dramatic force. The poet flashes out frequently in the terse lines of the early part of the play, and later reaches high-water mark in the scenes at Stephen Ghent's home on the mountain top. The play is worth many readings."—San Francisco Chronicle.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Faith Healer: A Play in Three Acts

THE FAITH HEALER

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

THE FAITH HEALER

A Play in Three Acts

By

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

AUTHOR OF "THE GREAT DIVIDE," ETC.

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1910

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1909, 1910,
By WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1910.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY'S

The Great Divide	Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Faith Healer: A Play in Three Acts

THE FAITH HEALER

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO

THE FAITH HEALER

A Play in Three Acts

By

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

AUTHOR OF "THE GREAT DIVIDE," ETC.

New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1910

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1909, 1910, By WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1910.

Norwood Press J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1909, 1910,
By WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.