It was the afternoon of the Red Cross weekly working-party, held in the village of Summerglade, in the early stages of the Great War. The party was a small one, consisting of Mrs. Batterby, a farmer’s wife, in whose parlour the meeting was held; Mrs. Veale, the wife of the village doctor; Mrs. Windybank, a gloomy widow; and Miss Skipworth, an ingenuous and tender-hearted spinster. Between Mrs. Batterby and Mrs. Veale there existed a bitter and abiding warfare.
“May I ask what you were thinking of—if not of the bravery of our own dear soldiers—when you expressed your assurance of the ultimate success of the Allied Forces?” asked Mrs. Veale, with her needle in her fingers and the light of battle in her eye.
“By all means,” replied Mrs. Batterby; “and, a civil question demanding a civil answer, I don’t mind telling you that I feel sure we shall win, because we know that God is on our side and is fighting for us.”
“But their numbers are so great and their guns so magnificent,” repeated Mrs. Windybank with a lugubrious sigh. “I sometimes fear that they will win in the end, and we shall all be blown up by Zeppelins and trampled underfoot. I’m sure I pray every morning that our armies may win, but I tremble when I think of the forces against us.”
“So did the Prophet’s servant till his eyes were opened and he saw the mountain full of horses and chariots,” replied Mrs. Batterby. “But some folk’s eyes seem made not to open, like the stained-glass windows in Summerglade Church.”
“It is right to pray, but we must beware of presumptuousness in our prayers,” said Mrs. Veale sententiously.
“We’d much better beware of want of faith,” retorted the hostess.
“But it is difficult to have faith when things seem going against us,” said Matilda Skipworth.
“Stuff and nonsense, Matilda! It’s when things seem going against us that our faith is really any compliment to the Almighty. I can’t see anything very complimentary to Him when every morning I pray with faith, ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ knowing all the time that it’s in the larder with a damp cloth over it. But it’s when people pray that particular prayer, with no bread in the house and no money to pay for any, that their faith is any compliment to God or worthy of His acceptance.”
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“I know my faith is very feeble and my prayers are unworthy,” sighed Miss Skipworth, “but I do try to believe. Still, I cannot help envying the Prophet’s servant who saw the horses and
