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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Faith Healer, by William Vaughn Moody
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Faith Healer
+       A Play in Three Acts
+
+Author: William Vaughn Moody
+
+Release Date: May 16, 2009 [EBook #28851]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAITH HEALER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Kentuckiana Digital Library)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+
+ULRICH MICHAELIS
+MATTHEW BEELER
+MARY BEELER, _his wife_
+MARTHA BEELER, _his sister_
+ANNIE BEELER, _his daughter_
+RHODA WILLIAMS, _Mrs. Beeler's niece_
+DR. GEORGE LITTLEFIELD
+REV. JOHN CULPEPPER
+UNCLE ABE, _an old negro_
+AN INDIAN BOY
+A YOUNG MOTHER WITH HER BABY
+VARIOUS SICK PEOPLE AND OTHERS ATTENDANT UPON THEM
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+
+_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._
+
+_She goes into the hall and is heard knocking and calling._
+
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Rhody! Rhody!
+
+    _Matthew Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is not quite dressed,
+    but finishes as he comes in. Martha follows him._
+
+Where's that niece of yours got to now?
+
+BEELER.
+
+She's helping Mary dress.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+What in time's Mary gettin' up for? She's only in the way till the
+work's done.
+
+BEELER.
+
+She's restless.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Significantly._
+
+I shouldn't wonder. _Pause._ I hope you know _why_ Mary didn't sleep.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Evasively._
+
+She's always been a light sleeper, since she got her stroke.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Maybe I do, Sis.
+
+    _Points to the ceiling._
+
+Is he up yet?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Up! I don't believe he's been abed.
+
+    _They listen, as to the tread of some one on the floor above._
+
+Back and forth, like a tiger in a cage!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Shrugs._
+
+Queer customer.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Yes.
+
+    _Imitates him._
+
+"Queer customer," that's you. But come to doin' anything about it!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Give me time, Sis, give me time!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+How much time do you want? He's been in this house since Wednesday
+night, and this is Saturday morning.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Well, he's payin' his board, ain't he?
+
+    _At window, rolls up curtain._
+
+Goin' to have just such another day as yesterday. Never seen such a
+fog.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Never seen such a fog, eh?
+
+    _Comes nearer and speaks mysteriously._
+
+Did you happen to notice how long that fog has been hangin' over this
+house?
+
+BEELER.
+
+How long? Why, since Thursday.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+No, sir, since Wednesday night.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Looking at her, astonished._
+
+Martha Beeler! You don't mean to say--he _brought_ the fog?
+
+    _She flounces out without answering. He lights lantern, with
+    dubious head-shaking, and holds it up before the print portraits._
+
+Mornin', Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. Spencer. Still keepin' things
+straight?
+
+    _Grunts as he turns down his lantern, which is smoking._
+
+I guess not very.
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Taking refuge behind the table._
+
+King's X!
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Catching her._
+
+You didn't have your fingers crossed.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Turning Annie about, and beginning to button the child's long
+    slip._
+
+And you didn't have your dress buttoned.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+That doesn't count.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, it does, before breakfast!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _At the outer door._
+
+How does your aunt strike you this morning?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Sobered._
+
+She seems wonderfully better.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Better!
+
+RHODA.
+
+I don't mean her poor body. She's got past caring for that.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _With sarcasm._
+
+You mean in her mind, eh?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, I mean better in her mind.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Because of what this fellow has been sayin' to her, I suppose.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, because of that.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _As he puts on an old fur cap._
+
+An out-and-out fakir!
+
+RHODA.
+
+You don't know him.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is
+not--what you say.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+What's a fakir?
+
+    _Rhoda does not answer._
+
+Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Humoring her._
+
+A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does
+strange things.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+What kind of things?
+
+RHODA.
+
+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!
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Don't he fall?
+
+    _Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation._
+
+    _Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets
+    nervously._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Listen! He's coming down!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _In a panic._
+
+Let me go.
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _As he enters._
+
+Good morning.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Watching Annie's retreat._
+
+Is--is that child afraid of me?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table._
+
+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._
+
+    _Rhoda nods toward the closing door._
+
+It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another
+world, to her.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Looks at her in an odd, startled way._
+
+Another world?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the
+Indians, you told me.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Where?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+At Acoma.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Where is that?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Standing near the wall map, touches it._
+
+In New Mexico, by the map.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Comes nearer._
+
+What is it like?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It's--as you say--another world.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Describe it to me.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+My life has seemed far off, too--my old life--
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What do you mean by your old life?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _She breaks out impulsively._
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It was three days ago that I first saw you.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You were unhappy, then?
+
+RHODA.
+
+The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Why was that?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Have things here been hard and bitter?
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I cannot think of you as anything but glad and free.
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+    _Bell rings._
+
+That is Aunt Mary's bell.
+
+    _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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Snappishly._
+
+Hope you slept well!
+
+    _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._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You are better?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Speaks with low intensity._
+
+Much, much better.
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Mat, you haven't said good morning to our guest.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Gruffly._
+
+How are you?
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Why doesn't Annie come to the table?
+
+    _She tries to look around. Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, who looks
+    at her, puzzled._
+
+_Why_ doesn't Annie come?
+
+RHODA.
+
+She's afraid.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Afraid! What is she afraid of?
+
+RHODA.
+
+You know how shy she is, before strangers.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Annie, please come here! Annie!
+
+    _The child refuses, pouting, and gazing at Michaelis._
+
+RHODA.
+
+I wouldn't urge her. She doesn't want to come.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Trenchantly._
+
+Don't blame her!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Gently reproving._
+
+Martha!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Holding out his hand to Annie._
+
+Won't you come here, my child?
+
+    _Annie approaches slowly, as if hypnotized._
+
+You're not afraid of me, are you?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Shyly._
+
+Not if you won't climb up the rope.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Puzzled._
+
+Climb up what rope?
+
+RHODA.
+
+It's a story I was foolish enough to tell her.--Do eat something,
+Auntie.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I'll drink a little more tea.
+
+    _Rhoda raises the cup to Mrs. Beeler's lips._
+
+BEELER.
+
+You can't live on tea, Mary.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+I guess she can live on tea better than on some things!
+
+    _With a resentful glance at Michaelis._
+
+Some things that some folks seem to live on, and expect other folks to
+live on.
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Leans forward across the table to Michaelis._
+
+Don't mind my sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It's her way. She means
+nothing by it.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Between gulps of coffee, as he finishes his meal._
+
+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!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Beseechingly._
+
+Mat!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Throws down his napkin and rises._
+
+Very well. It's none of my business, I reckon, as long as it keeps
+within reason.
+
+    _He puts on his cap and goes out through the kitchen._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _To Michaelis, continuing the whispered conversation._
+
+And if you do climb up the rope, do you promise to come down.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes, I promise to come down.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Leans over her plate. The others bow their heads._
+
+Bless this food to our use, and this day to our strength and our
+salvation.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _As they lift their heads._
+
+Perhaps it will be light enough now without the lamp.
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Gazing out, from where she sits reclining._
+
+The blessed sun! I never thought to see it rise again so beautiful.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Looks at her aunt, puzzled and alarmed._
+
+But, Auntie, there isn't any sun! It's--
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+There isn't any sun? Why--
+
+    _Rhoda pretends not to hear. Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis._
+
+What does she mean by saying there is no sun?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+She means she doesn't see it.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Still puzzled._
+
+But--you see it, don't you?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I see the same sun that you see.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Looks again at Rhoda, then dismisses her wonderment, and looks out
+    at the window dreamily._
+
+Another day--and to-morrow the best of all the days of the year.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+What day is to-morrow?
+
+    _She leaves Michaelis and comes to her mother's side._
+
+What day is to-morrow?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _With exultation in her voice._
+
+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.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Fretfully._
+
+Mamma, I don't understand! What day is to-morrow?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+To-morrow is Easter.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _With sudden interest._
+
+Easter! Can I have some eggs to color?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Ask Aunt Martha.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Singsong, as she skips out._
+
+Eggs to color! Eggs to color!
+
+    _Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large tray from the cupboard and has
+    been piling the dishes noiselessly upon it._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Shall I wheel you in, Aunt Mary?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Yes, please.
+
+    _Rhoda wheels the chair toward the hall door, which Michaelis
+    opens. Mrs. Beeler gazes at him as she passes._
+
+Will you come in soon, and sit with me? There is so much that I want to
+hear.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Whenever you are ready.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I will ring my bell.
+
+    _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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Is it against the law to work where he comes from?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Abstractedly._
+
+What?--No.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Then he might as well do me some chores. Not but right, payin' only
+half board.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _To the boy._
+
+Do whatever she tells you.
+
+    _The boy follows Martha out. Michaelis stands by the window in
+    thought. As Rhoda reenters, he looks up. He speaks significantly,
+    with suppressed excitement._
+
+She saw the sun!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Poor dear Auntie!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You pity her?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _After an instant's silence, during which she ponders her reply._
+
+I think I envy her.
+
+    _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._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+How long did you say she had been sick?
+
+RHODA.
+
+More than four years--nearly five.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+She has never walked in that time?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Shakes her head._
+
+Nor used her right hand, either.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _With intensity._
+
+Are you certain?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Surprised at his tone._
+
+Yes--I haven't lived here long, but I am certain.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+She has tried medicine, doctors?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Uncle has spent everything he could earn on them. She has been three
+times to the mineral baths, once as far as Virginia.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+But never as far as Bethesda.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Bethesda? Where is that?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+The pool, which is called Bethesda, having five porches.
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+And whoever first, after the troubling of the waters, stepped in, he
+was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.
+
+RHODA.
+
+If anybody could find the way there again, it would be Aunt Mary.
+
+    _Pause._
+
+And if anybody could show her the way it would be--you.
+
+    _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?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With hesitation._
+
+Her brother Seth--the one who died--has she told you about him?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What she thinks happens--since--he died?
+
+    _Michaelis nods assent._
+
+And yet in most other ways her mind is perfectly clear.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Perhaps in this way it is clearer still.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Startled._
+
+You mean--that maybe she really does--_see_ her brother?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It may be.
+
+RHODA.
+
+It would make the world a very different--a very strange place, if that
+_were_ true.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+The world _is_ a very strange place.
+
+    _Pause._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Tell me a little about your life. That seems to have been very strange.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Vaguely, as he seats himself by the table._
+
+I don't know. I can hardly remember what my life was.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Why is that?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Gazing at her._
+
+Because, since I came into this house, I have seen the vision of
+another life.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With hesitation._
+
+What--other life?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Since my boyhood I have been--
+
+    _He hesitates._
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Avoiding his gaze._
+
+How should that make you know?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Leans nearer._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a low and agitated voice._
+
+You must not say these things to me. You are--I am not--. You must not
+think of me so.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I must think of you as I must.
+
+    _Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter tone, as if to relieve the
+    tension of their last words._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Tell me a little of your boyhood.--What was it like--that place where
+you lived?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Becomes absorbed in his own mental pictures as he speaks._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _After a moment's hush._
+
+What did you do after your father died?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I went away south, into the mountains, and got work on a sheep range. I
+was a shepherd for five years.
+
+RHODA.
+
+And since then?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Hesitates._
+
+Since then I have--wandered about, working here and there to earn
+enough to live on.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I understand well why men take up that life. I should love it myself.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I didn't do it because I loved it.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Why, then?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I was waiting my time.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a low tone._
+
+Your time--for what?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+To fulfil my life--my real life.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Your--real life?
+
+    _He sits absorbed in thought without answering. Rhoda continues,
+    after a long pause._
+
+There in the mountains, when you were a shepherd--that was not your
+real life?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It was the beginning of it.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With hesitation._
+
+Won't you tell me a little about that time?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Were you all alone?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+There were a few men on the ranges, but they were no more to me than
+the sheep--not so much.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Weren't you dreadfully lonely?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No.
+
+RHODA.
+
+You hadn't even any books to read?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Takes a took from his coat pocket._
+
+I had this pocket Bible, that had been my father's. I read that
+sometimes. But always in a dream, without understanding, without
+remembering.
+
+    _His excitement increases._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+And you didn't know what made the difference?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What was it?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I can't tell you that.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Oh, yes!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+There are no words to tell of it.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yet tell me. I need to know. Believe me, I need to know!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Slowly, groping for his words._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What came?
+
+    _He does not answer._
+
+You saw something?
+
+    _He nods for yes._
+
+What was it?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Rises, lifting his arms, a prey to uncontrollable excitement._
+
+The living Christ!--Standing before me on the mountain, amid the
+grazing sheep.--With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw Him.
+
+    _Long pause._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a low tone._
+
+You had fallen asleep. It was a dream.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Shakes his head in negation._
+
+That wasn't all.
+
+    _He turns away. She follows him, and speaks after a silence._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Tell me the rest. What happened to you, after--after what you saw--that
+morning in the mountains?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Begins to talk slowly and reluctantly._
+
+I lived straight ahead, with the sheep for two years.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Hesitating._
+
+Did you ever _see_ anything again?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No.--But twice--I heard a voice.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What kind of a voice?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What did it say?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It said, "Prepare! Prepare!"
+
+RHODA.
+
+And the second time?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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!"
+
+RHODA.
+
+And you obeyed?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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--
+
+    _He breaks off abruptly._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Go on!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a low tone._
+
+How long had he lain--for dead?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Three days.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With hesitation._
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Startled._
+
+Is that true?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I have read so.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I wonder--I wonder.
+
+    _He stands in deep thought._
+
+But I have had other signs.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What other signs?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Many, many. Up and down the land!
+
+    _Pause._
+
+I wonder.--I--I almost wish it were so!
+
+    _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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+These Sunday papers do get up fine supplements. I wouldn't take money
+for that picture.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Looks at it absently._
+
+What does it mean?
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Reads._
+
+"Pan and the Pilgrim." Guess you never heard of Pan, did you?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes. One of the old heathen gods.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+What does the picture mean?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Well, Pan there, he was a kind of a nature god. The old Romans thought
+him out, to stand for a lot of things.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What kind of things?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Natural things, with plenty of sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants,
+and frisky animals, and young folks in love.
+
+    _He points to the figure of Pan, then to the Pilgrim, as he talks._
+
+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.
+
+    _Martha enters from the kitchen and potters about the room "redding
+    up."_
+
+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!
+
+    _Pause, as he takes off his cap and light his pipe._
+
+Like to see our friend Michaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't believe
+Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed at a girl.
+
+    _He examines Rhoda quizzically._
+
+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!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Don't you be so sure!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Hello! Dan'el come to judgment! Never seen an old maid yet that
+couldn't squeeze a love story out of a flat-iron.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+I may be an old maid, and you may be an old wind-bag, but I've got eyes
+in my head.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+Where did you meet up with him, anyway?
+
+    _Rhoda, plunged in thought, does not answer._
+
+BEELER.
+
+Wake up, Rhody! Marthy asked you where you met up with our new boarder.
+
+RHODA.
+
+On the road, coming home from the village.
+
+BEELER.
+
+What made you bring him here?
+
+RHODA.
+
+He wanted a quiet place to stay, and this was the best I knew.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Guess it was!--A snap for him.
+
+    _She goes out by the hall door._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Rises, takes the lamp off the mantel, and during the following
+    cleans and refills it._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _As he takes off his coat, and hangs it up._
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Looks at him quickly._
+
+Why do you ask that?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Oh, I gathered, from things I heard, that you cared more about dancin'
+than about prayin', up there.
+
+    _She turns away._
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Startled and pale._
+
+Who told you about him?
+
+BEELER.
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Uncle, please never speak to me about him again!
+
+BEELER.
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Sits down to mend the harness._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What is his name?
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Tries in vain to recall it._
+
+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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+They're prayer-meetin' it again. And Mary lyin' there as if she saw the
+pearly gates openin' before her eyes.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Half to himself as he works._
+
+Poor Mary!--Mary's a strange woman.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Looks up, angry._
+
+None of that, Sis!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+I guess my tongue's my own.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Points to his foot derisively._
+
+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!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Astonished._
+
+Martha Beeler!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+That's my name.
+
+    _She flounces out into the kitchen, covering her retreat with her
+    last speech._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Looking after her._
+
+My kingdom! Martha! I thought she had some horse sense left.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Slowly, as the finishes with the lamp._
+
+Uncle, it's hard to live side by side with Aunt Mary and not--
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _In angry challenge._
+
+And not what?
+
+RHODA.
+
+And not believe there's something more in these matters than "horse
+sense" will account for.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Hotly, as if a sort point has been touched upon._
+
+There's nothing more than science will account for.
+
+    _He points to a shelf of books._
+
+You can read it up any day you like. Read that book yonder, chapter
+called Hallucinations. Pathological, that's what it is, pathological.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What does that mean?
+
+    _Beeler taps his forehead significantly._
+
+Uncle, you know that's not true!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Growls to himself._
+
+Pathological, up and down.
+
+    _Rhoda replaces the lamp on the mantel._
+
+    _Martha opens the kitchen door and calls in._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Here's Uncle Abe!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Uncle Abe? Thought he was a goner.
+
+    _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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+Hello, Uncle Abe.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Good-mawnin', Mista Beeler.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Where've you been all winter? Thought you'd gone up Salt River.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Shakes his head reassuringly._
+
+Ain' nevah goin' up no Salt River, yo' Uncle Abe ain't.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Indicating Rhoda._
+
+Make you acquainted with my wife's niece, Miss Williams.
+
+    _Uncle Abe bows._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Pushing forward a chair._
+
+Sit down, Uncle. I don't see how you found your way in this dreadful
+fog.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Fawg don' matta' nothin' to me, honey. Don' mean nothin' 'tall.
+
+    _He speaks with exaltation and restrained excitement._
+
+Yo' ol' Uncle keeps on tellin' 'em, dis hyah fawg an' darkness don'
+mean nothin' 'tall!
+
+    _Rhoda and Martha look at him puzzled._
+
+    _Beeler, busy over his harness, has not been struck by the old
+    negro's words._
+
+BEELER.
+
+How's the ginseng crop this year?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+They ain' no mo' gimsing!
+
+BEELER.
+
+No more ginseng? What do you mean?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+De good Lawd, he ain' goin' fool roun' no mo' wif no gimsing!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Amused._
+
+Why, I thought your ginseng bitters was His main holt.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _With a touch of regret._
+
+Use to be, Mars' Beeler. It shore use to be.--Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd!
+
+    _Shakes his head in reminiscence._
+
+He sartinly did set sto' by them thah bitters.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _With lazy amusement._
+
+So the Lord's gone back on ginseng now, has He?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Yes, sah.
+
+BEELER.
+
+What makes you think so?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Solemnly._
+
+Roots all kill by de fros'!
+
+    _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!
+
+    _Martha taps her forehead significantly, and goes back to her
+    batter._
+
+BEELER.
+
+New star, Uncle? Tell us about it. Sounds interesting.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Stares at each of them in turn._
+
+Ain' you-all heerd?
+
+BEELER.
+
+You've got the advantage of us.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Ain' you-all heerd 'bout de Healer?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Healer? What kind of a healer?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _With mounting indignation at Beeler's tone._
+
+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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+Nope.
+
+    _Recollecting._
+
+Hold on!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _To Beeler._
+
+Don't you remember, in the papers, two or three weeks ago? Where was
+it? Somewheres out West.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Believe I did read some such goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to
+such nonsense.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Solemn and threatening._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Tell us quickly what you mean!
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Mean jes' what I says, honey. Night fo' last, de Healer, he come,
+like's if he jes' plum' drop from de sky.
+
+    _More mysteriously._
+
+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!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Meeting Beeler's astonished look._
+
+What did I tell you? Maybe you'll listen to _me_ next time.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _To Uncle Abe, in a low, agitated voice._
+
+This man you call the Healer--is he alone?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Rises, with a shrug._
+
+Good evening!
+
+    _He crosses to the portraits of Darwin and Spencer._
+
+You made quite a stir in your time, didn't you? Well, it's all up with
+you!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _In a voice strident with nervousness._
+
+Raised from the dead?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Well, did you get my coffee and my sal-soda?
+
+    _Lazarus points, without speaking, to the kitchen._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _To Martha._
+
+Did you send him to the store?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Yes, I did send him to the store. If I had my way, I'd send
+him--further.
+
+    _The boy hesitates, then goes stolidly out by the stair door. Uncle
+    Abe lifts his arm ecstatically._
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+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!
+
+BEELER.
+
+I guess it's about time that fellow come out and exploded some of this
+tomfoolery.
+
+    _He starts towards his wife's room._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Stopping him._
+
+Please don't.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Peevishly._
+
+There's got to be an end to this hoodoo business in my house.
+
+    _Annie enters from the kitchen, dabbled with dye. She holds two
+    colored eggs in her hands._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Look! I've colored two.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Good gracious, child. What a mess!
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Pa! Play crack with me! Just once, to see how it goes.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Go in and ask your mother if she'll let you.
+
+    _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._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Pa! Auntie! Ma's walking!
+
+    _Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, her face full of intense
+    exaltation. Michaelis comes just behind her, transfigured by
+    spiritual excitement._
+
+BEELER AND MARTHA.
+
+    _Starting forward._
+
+Mary!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Aunt Mary!
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Mat, I'm cured! The Lord has heard our prayers, for His saint's sake.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Why, Mary, I can't believe this--it's too--it's not possible!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Looking at Michaelis._
+
+It is written that he who has faith, even as a grain of mustard seed--.
+I have had faith.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Law, you've had faith enough any time these five years, Mary. There was
+something else wanting, 'pears to me.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Turning slowly to Rhoda._
+
+Who are they?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Sick people.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+How did they find out I was here?
+
+RHODA.
+
+It was known you were somewhere near.--They have been gathering for
+days.--They saw the boy, just now, in the village.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Comes a step or two nearer Michaelis._
+
+Your great hour is at hand!
+
+    _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.
+
+My hour!--My hour!--And I--and I--!
+
+    _He puts his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some vision of
+    dread._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+You will not fail them? You cannot fail them, now.
+
+    _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.
+
+
+CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+
+_Late afternoon of the same day._
+
+_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._
+
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Kissing her aunt._
+
+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._
+
+Well, Uncle Abe?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+I's awake an' a-watchin', honey!
+
+    _He turns again to the child, shaking his head as at some unspoken
+    thought, while Rhoda arranges the flowers in a vase._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Rhoda!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, Aunt Mary?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Come here.
+
+    _Rhoda approaches. Mrs. Beeler speaks low, with suppressed
+    excitement._
+
+What is the news, outside?
+
+RHODA.
+
+You mustn't excite yourself. You must keep your strength.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I shall be strong enough.--Are the people still gathering from the
+town?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, and they keep coming in from other places.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Are there many of them?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Many! Many! It's as if the whole world knew.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+The more there are, the greater will be the witness.--_Pause._ When do
+you think he will go out to them?
+
+RHODA.
+
+They believe he is waiting for Easter morning.
+
+    _Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet and shawl on, and a large
+    basket in her hand._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Mary, you'd ought to be abed. You're tempting Providence.
+
+    _She takes off her bonnet and shawl, and deposits the basket._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I didn't know till to-day you had a doctor.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Yes. He's a young man who's just come here to build up a practice.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+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._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Uncle Abe, tell me who that is.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Glancing at Mrs. Beeler and Rhoda._
+
+H'sh!
+
+ANNIE.
+
+What's he doing up there in the bushes, blowing on that funny whistle?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Look hyah, chil', you jus' wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis hyah
+fool pictuh long 'go!
+
+    _He tries to draw her away; she resists._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Petulantly._
+
+Uncle Abe! Who is it?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Whispers, makes big eyes._
+
+That thah's Ole Nick, that's who that thah is! That thah's de Black
+Man!
+
+    _Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down and retreats to her mother's
+    chair. Mrs. Beeler rouses from her revery and strokes her child's
+    head._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Oh, my child, how happy you are to see this while you are so young! You
+will never forget, will you, dear?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Fidgeting._
+
+Forget what?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+I don't know what you're talking about! I can't hardly breathe the way
+people are in this house.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    "Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+    Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+    Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+        Ring dem charmin' bells."
+
+    _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._
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+That thah chil' she's talkin' sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about
+dis hyah house.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Not right? What do you mean?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Shakes his head dubiously._
+
+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'--
+
+    _He leans closer and whispers._
+
+de Lawd's Chosen One, he's done got a spell on 'im!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Shocked and startled._
+
+Uncle Abe!
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Pointing at the Pan and the Pilgrim._
+
+Why do you keep that thah pictuh nail up thah fur?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+My husband likes it.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+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!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+That's not the Black Man.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+That's him, shore's yo' born! Jes' what he looks like. I's seen 'im,
+more'n once.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Seen the Black Man, Uncle?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+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.
+
+    _He leans nearer, more mysteriously._
+
+En what you s'pose I heerd him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem
+scan'lous bluejays?
+
+    _Chants in a high, trilling voice._
+
+"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!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+You just imagined all that.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Indignant._
+
+Jes' 'magine! Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, near 'nough to say
+"Howdy"?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+There isn't any Devil.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Astounded._
+
+Ain't no Devil?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+No.
+
+    _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._
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Mis' Beelah, did I understan' you to say--they ain'--no Devil?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Touching her breast._
+
+Only here, Uncle Abe.
+
+    _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._
+
+Do you think your Uncle Mat would mind if we took that picture down?
+
+    _Rhoda unpins the picture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays it
+    on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, hesitatingly._
+
+Do you know, Rhoda, I have sometimes thought--You won't be hurt?
+
+RHODA.
+
+No.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I--I know what that old negro says is all foolishness, but--there _is_
+something the matter with Mr. Michaelis. Have you noticed?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Avoiding her aunt's gaze._
+
+Yes.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Just when his great work is about to begin!--What do you think it can
+be?
+
+RHODA.
+
+How should I know, Aunt Mary?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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.
+
+    _Rhoda comes to her aunt and stands a moment in silence._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Auntie.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Yes?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I think I ought to go away.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Astonished._
+
+Go away? Why?
+
+RHODA.
+
+So as not to--hinder him.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Caressing her._
+
+There, you have taken what I said too seriously. It was only a sick
+woman's imagination.
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+You mean--?
+
+    _She hesitates._
+
+You mean--because of you?--Rhoda, look at me.
+
+    _Rhoda avoids her aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down the girl's
+    face and gazes at it._
+
+Is there anything--that I don't know--between you and him?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I--I must go away.--I ought to have gone before.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+My child, this--this troubles me very much. He is different from other
+men, and you--and you--
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With passion._
+
+Say it, say it! What am I?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+What are you going to do?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I am going away--I _must_ go away.
+
+    _Martha enters from the hall._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Speaks lower._
+
+Promise me you won't! Promise me!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+To look at that, now! Seein' you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new
+start every time.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+You promise?
+
+    _Rhoda bows her head as in assent._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Doctor's in the parlor. Shall I bring him in here?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+No. I think I will rest awhile. He can come to my room.
+
+    _She walks unsteadily. The others try to help her, but she motions
+    them back._
+
+No. It's so good to feel that I can walk alone!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+It does beat all!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Yes, Mary. There will be nothing to separate us any more.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Points at his books._
+
+Not even--them?
+
+    _He goes to the alcove, takes the books from the shelf, raises the
+    lid of the window-seat, and throws them in._
+
+    _Mrs. Beeler points to the pictures of Darwin and Spencer._
+
+Nor them?
+
+    _He unpins the pictures, lays them upon the heap of books, and
+    returns to her._
+
+You don't know how happy that makes me!
+
+    _They go out by the hall door, Martha, as she lowers the lid of the
+    window-seat, points derisively at the heap._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+That's a good riddance of bad rubbish!
+
+    _She comes to the table and continues packing the basket._
+
+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.
+
+    _Rhoda fetches other articles from the cupboard._
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+All the neighbors are helping, and none of them with our cause for
+thankfulness.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+That's no sign you should go plasterin' on that butter like you was a
+bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor!
+
+    _She takes the bread from Rhoda and scrapes the butter thin._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _As the clock strikes five._
+
+It's time for Aunt Mary to have her tea. Shall I make it?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+You make it! Not unless you want to lay her flat on her back again!
+
+    _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._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Sings with sly emphasis._
+
+    "Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+    Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+    Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
+        Ring dem charmin' bells."
+
+    _She climbs upon a chair by the table, and fingers the contents of
+    basket as she sings._
+
+RHODA.
+
+What's got into you, little imp?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Brazenly._
+
+I've been peeping through mamma's keyhole.
+
+RHODA.
+
+That's not nice.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+I know it, but the minister's in there and Dr. Littlefield.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Startled._
+
+Who?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+You know, mamma's doctor.--Oh, he's never come since you've been here.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a changed voice, as she takes the child by the shoulders._
+
+What does he look like?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+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--
+
+    _Exhausted by her efforts at description._
+
+Oh, I don't know!
+
+    _She sings as she climbs down, and goes out by the kitchen door._
+
+    "Free grace, undyin' love,
+    Free grace, undyin' love,
+    Free grace, undyin' love,
+      Ring dem lovely bells."
+
+    _Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Beeler's room. He speaks back to
+    Beeler on the threshold._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Don't bother! I'll find it.
+
+    _Looking for something, he approaches Rhoda, who has her back
+    turned._
+
+Beg pardon. Have you seen a pocket thermometer I left here?
+
+    _She faces him. He starts back in surprise._
+
+Bless my soul and body! Rhoda Williams!
+
+    _He closes the hall door, returns to her, and stands somewhat
+    disconcerted._
+
+Here, of all places!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Mrs. Beeler is my aunt.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Well, well! The world is small.--Been here long?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Only a month.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+And before that?
+
+RHODA.
+
+It's a long story. Besides, you wouldn't understand.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+You might let me try. What in the world have you been doing all this
+time?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I have been searching for something.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+What was it?
+
+RHODA.
+
+My own lost self. My own--lost soul.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Amused at her solemnity._
+
+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!
+
+    _He waves his hands expressively._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Bursts out._
+
+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.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+You don't mean you went back to the farm?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I mean that the years I'd spent out there in that endless stretch of
+earth and sky--.
+
+    _She breaks off, with a weary gesture._
+
+There's no use going into that. You wouldn't understand.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Looking at him steadily._
+
+You know very well why I went.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Returning her gaze, unabashed, chants with meaning and relish._
+
+    "Hey diddle, diddle,
+    The cat and the fiddle,
+    The cow jumped over the moon."
+
+    _Rhoda takes up the basket and goes toward the outer door. He
+    intercepts her._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Let me pass.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+You're not taking part in this camp-meeting enthusiasm, are you?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes.
+
+    _As he stares at her, his astonishment changes to amusement; he
+    chuckles to himself, then bursts out laughing, as in humorous
+    reminiscence._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Looks at Littlefield with vague query, then at Rhoda._
+
+Excuse me, I am very thirsty. I came down for a glass of water.
+
+    _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._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+We ought to know each other. We're colleagues, in a way.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Colleagues?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+In a way, yes. I'm a practising physician.
+
+    _Exit Rhoda._
+
+You seem to have the call on us professionals, to judge by the number
+of your clients out yonder.
+
+    _He points out of the window._
+
+To say nothing of Exhibit One!
+
+    _He points to the hall door._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Vaguely._
+
+I--I don't know that I--
+
+    _Rhoda enters from the kitchen, with water, which he takes._
+
+Thank you.
+
+    _He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler appears in the hall door; he looks
+    at the group, taken aback._
+
+BEELER.
+
+Oh--!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+I stopped to chat with your niece. She and I happen to be old
+acquaintances.
+
+BEELER.
+
+You don't say?--Would you mind coming in here for a minute?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Following him out._
+
+What's up?
+
+BEELER.
+
+My wife's got it in her head that she's called upon to--
+
+    _Door closes. Michaelis, who has followed Littlefield with his
+    eyes, sets down the glass, and turns slowly to Rhoda._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Who is that?
+
+RHODA.
+
+My aunt's doctor.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You know him well?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes.--No.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What does that mean?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I haven't seen him for nearly two years.--I can't remember much about
+the person I was, two years ago.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes! Yes! I understand.
+
+    _He turns away, lifting his hands, speaking half to himself._
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Why do you say that?
+
+    _He does not answer, but walks nervously about. Rhoda, watching
+    him, speaks, after a silence._
+
+Last month--out West--were there many people there?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No.--Two or three.
+
+RHODA.
+
+The papers said--
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+When the crowd began to gather, I--went away.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Why?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+My time had not come.
+
+    _He has stopped before the map and stands gazing at it._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Has it come now?
+
+    _She comes closer._
+
+--Has your time come now?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+How do you know?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Points at the map._
+
+It is written there!
+
+RHODA.
+
+How do you mean, written there?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Can't you see it?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I see the map, nothing more.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Points again, gazing fixedly._
+
+It seems to me to be written in fire.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What seems written?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What I have been doing, all these five years.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Since your work began?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+    _He points at the map, his manner transformed with excitement and
+    exaltation._
+
+It is written there. It is written in letters of fire. My eyes are
+opened, and I see!
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Following his gaze, then looking at him again, awed and
+    bewildered._
+
+What is it that you see?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+The cross!
+
+RHODA.
+
+I--I don't understand.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I see.--It makes a kind of cross.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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?
+
+    _He begins again to pace the room._
+
+--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?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _In a steady voice._
+
+They mean what my aunt said this morning. They mean that your great
+hour has come.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+My hour! my hour!
+
+    _He comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter tone._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What has that to do with you? It's not--? You don't mean that you--?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No. There is a stronger drink for such as I am!
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Forcing herself to go on._
+
+What--"stronger drink"?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Wildly._
+
+The wine of this world! The wine-bowl that crowns the feasting table of
+the children of this world.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What do you mean by--the wine of this world?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You know that! Every woman knows.
+
+    _He points out of the window, at the sky flushed with sunset
+    color._
+
+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._
+
+    _Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and dies away._
+
+I--we were saying--.
+
+    _He grasps her arm in nervous apprehension._
+
+For God's sake, tell me.--Are there many people--waiting--out there?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Hundreds, if not thousands.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Walks about._
+
+Thousands.--Thousands of thousands!--
+
+    _He stops beside her._
+
+You won't leave me alone?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Hesitates, then speaks with decision._
+
+No.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Continuing his walk._
+
+Thousands of thousands!
+
+    _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._
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _Mutters to Littlefield._
+
+Nonsense! Sacrilegious nonsense!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Same tone._
+
+I've done my best.
+
+    _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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _On the threshold._
+
+Mary, take another minute to consider.
+
+    _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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _To Michaelis._
+
+Tell me that I may go out, and stand before them for a testimony!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+As a physician, I must formally protest.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+And I as a minister of the Gospel.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _To Michaelis, with a nervous, despairing gesture._
+
+Speak to them! Explain to them! I am too weak.
+
+    _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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _As he forces the others back._
+
+You can't come in here, my friends! Stand back!
+
+    _The woman gazes from one to another of the men. The old negro
+    points at Michaelis. She advances to him, holding out the child._
+
+MOTHER.
+
+Don't let my baby die! For Christ's sake, don't let him die!
+
+    _He examines the child's face, touches the mother's head tenderly,
+    and signs to Rhoda to take them into the inner room._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Take her with you, I will come.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _With gentle urgency, to the woman._
+
+Come with me.
+
+    _She leads the woman out through the hall door._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _To Mrs. Beeler, as he points outside._
+
+Tell them to wait until to-morrow at sunrise.
+
+    _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._
+
+Go, all of you!
+
+    _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._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+You're on the wrong track, my friend.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I asked you to go.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Is that for you to say?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Yes, sir! It is most decidedly for me to say.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+By what authority?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I know that.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Who do you think did?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Raising his hands._
+
+He whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+No, sir! He whom _I_ serve, and whom _you_ blaspheme--Nature. Or
+rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Herself?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+You gave her a jog, so to speak, here, or here,
+
+    _Touches his brain and heart._
+
+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,
+
+    _Touches brain and heart._
+
+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--
+
+    _He points to the hall door._
+
+I'm worth a million of you.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Moves as if to give place to him, with a challenging gesture
+    toward the door._
+
+Try!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Shrugs._
+
+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.
+
+    _He points out and adds significantly._
+
+They're in no mood for failures, 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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Do you want me?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _In a toneless voice._
+
+No.
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Forcing herself to speak calmly._
+
+Please go.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Drops his professional tone for one of cynical badinage._
+
+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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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!
+
+    _She turns to the minister._
+
+Wasn't it a wonderful thing to see?
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+It is wonderful to see human nature so credulous. And to me, very
+painful.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+To-morrow you will see how right these poor souls are to lift their
+trust so high.--
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+Where is he now?
+
+    _Rhoda points in the direction of her own room._
+
+How happy that young mother's heart will be to-night!
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Solemnly._
+
+Amen!
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _In a dry tone._
+
+We will hope so.
+
+    _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._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Pointing through the window._
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _With severity._
+
+You have seen my wife walk alone to-day, the first time in five years.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+I beg your pardon. I understand how you feel about it.
+
+    _Martha goes out into the kitchen._
+
+And even if it proves to be only temporary--
+
+BEELER.
+
+Temporary!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Permanent, let us hope. Anyway, it's a very remarkable case.
+Astonishing. I've only known one just like it--personally, I mean.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Astounded._
+
+Just like it?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Well, pretty much. Happened in Chicago when I was an interne at St.
+Luke's.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Then it's not--there's nothing--peculiar about it?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Yes, sir-ree! Mighty peculiar!
+
+BEELER.
+
+I mean nothing, as you might say, outside nature?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+O, bless you, you can't get outside nature nowadays!
+
+    _Moves his hands in a wide circle._
+
+Tight as a drum, no air-holes.--Devilish queer, though--pardon me, Mr.
+Culpepper--really amazing, the power of the mind over the body.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+Would you be good enough to let us hear some of your professional
+experiences?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Lights a cigarette, as he leans on the edge of the table._
+
+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!
+
+BEELER.
+
+You think my wife's case is like these?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Precisely; with religious excitement to help out.
+
+    _He points outside._
+
+They're getting ready for Kingdom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr.
+Culpepper.
+
+BEELER.
+
+They're worked up enough, if that's all that's needed.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _With severity._
+
+I take it you are the late Dr. Martin's successor.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+I have the honor.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+Old Dr. Martin would never have taken a flippant tone in such a crisis.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Flippant? By no means! A little light-headed. My profession is
+attacked. At its very roots, sir.--
+
+    _With relish._
+
+As far as that goes, I'm afraid yours is, too.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _To Beeler, ignoring the gibe._
+
+Am I to understand that you countenance these proceedings?
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Pointing to the invalid chair._
+
+If your wife had spent five years helpless in that chair, I guess you'd
+countenance any proceedings that set her on her feet.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _Towers threateningly._
+
+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!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _With depreciating humor._
+
+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.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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--
+
+    _Sucks at his cigarette deliberately._
+
+lucky for us, he _can't_ keep it up.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Why can't he keep it up?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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!
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+    _Takes his hat and goes toward the outer door._
+
+Miracles, indeed!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Following._
+
+Oh, wait for me, Doctor; we're both in the same boat!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Hope you gentlemen will come back again to-night, and soon too. Don't
+know what'll happen if things go wrong in there.
+
+    _Points towards the hall._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+All right--you can count on me--
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _To Culpepper._
+
+And you?
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+I seldom shirk my duty.
+
+    _Beeler closes the door after them._
+
+    _Martha enters from the kitchen, with a pan of dough, which she
+    sets before the fire to raise._
+
+BEELER.
+
+You keepin' an eye out, Marthy?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Guess your barn'd 'a' been afire, if I hadn't been keepin' an eye out.
+
+BEELER.
+
+I warned 'em about fire!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Haymow ketched. If I hadn't been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been
+without a roof by now.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Guess I better go keep an eye out myself.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Guess you had!
+
+    _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._
+
+MOTHER.
+
+Don't leave me!
+
+RHODA.
+
+You mustn't worry. Your baby will get well.
+
+    _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.
+
+MOTHER.
+
+I'm afraid!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Think of those others out there, who are waiting too, without the
+glimpse of comfort you've had.
+
+MOTHER.
+
+    _Bursts out._
+
+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!"
+
+    _Martha, who has been listening, shakes her head significantly._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Cold words!
+
+MOTHER.
+
+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 woman rises. Rhoda kisses her._
+
+RHODA.
+
+I shall be here if you want me. And I shall--pray for you.
+
+    _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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Guess you're about dead beat.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I think I never was so tired in my life.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Worry does it, more'n work. Better try and doze off, Rhody.
+
+    _The hall door opens, and Annie enters. She comes to Martha, and
+    clings nervously to her skirts._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+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?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+She's cured, I reckon.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+How did she get cured?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+You can search me!
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Did that man cure her?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+That's what she says, and I don't hear him denyin' it.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Whining._
+
+I don't want her to be cured!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Annie Beeler! Don't want your mother to be cured?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+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 bursts out crying and clings feverishly to Martha._
+
+Oh, what's going to happen to us?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+There, Annie, don't cry.
+
+    _She looks at Rhoda, throws a cover over her knees, and draws Annie
+    away, speaking low._
+
+Come out in the kitchen, and I'll give you your supper.
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+What--what is the matter? Oh, you frightened me so!
+
+    _Michaelis turns away without answering._
+
+What has happened? Why are you here?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You had dropped asleep. You are weary.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Collecting her thoughts with difficulty._
+
+I was dreaming--such a strange dream.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What did you dream?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I thought it was morning; the sun had risen, and--and you were out
+there, in the midst of the crowd.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Excitedly._
+
+Go on! What happened?
+
+RHODA.
+
+I--I can't remember the rest.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Grasps her arm, speaks low._
+
+You must remember! Did I--succeed?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Helplessly._
+
+I--it's all a blur in my mind.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Darkly._
+
+You don't want me to know that, in your dream, I failed.
+
+RHODA.
+
+No, no. That is not so.
+
+    _Pause. She speaks with hesitation._
+
+Perhaps this is not the time. Perhaps you are not ready.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What does that matter? _He_ is ready.
+
+    _He points at the map._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Gazing at the map, with mystic conviction._
+
+You will succeed! You must succeed!
+
+    _He paces the room. She stops him, pointing toward the hall door._
+
+How is the child?
+
+    _He hesitates. She repeats the words anxiously._
+
+How is the child?
+
+    _He shakes his head gloomily for answer._
+
+It will get well, I am sure.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+If it does not, I am judged.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Oh, don't say that or think it!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I am weighed in the balance and found wanting!
+
+RHODA.
+
+You cannot hang the whole issue and meaning of your life upon so slight
+a thread.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+You must remember that it is only a little child. Its mind is not open.
+You cannot influence it--can you?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+    _Another song rises outside, distant._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Comes closer to him._
+
+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?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Looking at her steadily._
+
+Yes.--
+
+    _He comes nearer._
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Shrinking from him._
+
+You must not say such things to me.--You must not think of me so.--You
+must not!
+
+    _He follows her, his passion mounting._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+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._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You are all that I have feared and shunned and missed on earth, and now
+I have you, the rest is as nothing.
+
+    _He takes her, feebly resisting, into his arms._
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Yielding to his embrace, whispers._
+
+Don't talk. Don't think. Only--love me. A little while. A little while.
+
+    _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._
+
+MOTHER.
+
+Come here! Come quick!
+
+    _Michaelis and Rhoda draw apart. He stares at the woman, as if not
+    remembering who she is._
+
+I can't rouse him! My baby's gone. Oh, my God, he's dead!
+
+    _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._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Your man hasn't vamoosed, has he? Uncle Abe here says he saw the Indian
+boy slipping by in the fog.
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Turns to the negro inquiringly._
+
+Alone?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Mumbles half to himself._
+
+'Lone. 'Spec' he was alone. Didn't even have his own flesh and bones
+wif 'im!
+
+BEELER.
+
+What's that?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _Holds up his right hand, which he eyes with superstitious
+    interest._
+
+Put dis hyar han' right frough him!--Shore's you're bo'n. Right plum'
+frough 'im whar he lives.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+Mediaeval! Absolutely mediaeval!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Not a bit of it. It's up to date, and a little more, too.
+
+CULPEPPER.
+
+I'm astonished that you take this situation flippantly.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Not for a minute. My bread and butter are at stake.
+
+    _Wickedly._
+
+Yours too, you know.
+
+    _Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. She is in a state of
+    vague alarm. Her husband hastens to help her._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+What is it? What is the matter? I thought I heard--
+
+    _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._
+
+BEELER.
+
+Keep back! You can't come in here.
+
+    _As he pushes them roughly back, excited voices speak together._
+
+VOICES IN THE CROWD.
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Curse you, keep back, I say!
+
+    _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._
+
+A VOICE.
+
+    _On the outskirts of the crowd._
+
+Where's he gone to?
+
+BEELER.
+
+He's here. In the next room. Keep back! Here he comes now.
+
+    _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:_
+
+VOICES IN THE CROWD.
+
+Hallelujah! Emmanuel!
+
+A NEGRO.
+
+Praise de Lamb.
+
+A WOMAN.
+
+    _Above the murmuring voices._
+
+"He hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered."
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Who said that?
+
+    _A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, lifts her hands and cries
+    again, this time in a voice ecstatic and piercing._
+
+A WOMAN.
+
+"The Lord hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered!"
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+    _He advances into the room, with a gesture backward through the
+    open door._
+
+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._
+
+And here lies one who rose at my call, and was as one risen; but now--
+
+    _He breaks off, raises his hand to her, and speaks in a voice of
+    pleading._
+
+Arise, my sister!
+
+    _She makes a feeble gesture of the left hand._
+
+Rise up once more, I beseech you!
+
+    _She attempts to rise, but falls back helpless._
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Bending over her._
+
+Can't you get up, Mother?
+
+    _She shakes her head._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Turning to the people._
+
+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._
+
+Broken! Broken! Broken!
+
+
+CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+
+_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._
+
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _To Martha._
+
+Is Mary up?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Yes. Wants to go out on the porch and watch the sun rise, same as she's
+done every Easter morning since Seth died.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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.
+
+    _Pause._
+
+All the same, sun might as well stay in China this Easter!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Is that why you're tackin' up them fool pictures again?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Yes, ma'am. That's just why. Religion!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+You wa'n't so sure yesterday, when you saw your wife stand up on her
+two dead feet and walk.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Well, she ain't walkin' now.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+No, she ain't, poor thing.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Natural cure, natural relapse. Doctor says the new medical books
+explain it.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Give it a name, maybe!
+
+BEELER.
+
+    _Bursts out petulantly._
+
+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!
+
+    _He points at the ceiling._
+
+A fine picture of a healer he makes.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Looking up._
+
+Still as a stone! I'd rather have him ragin' round same as yesterday,
+like a lion with the epizootic.
+
+BEELER.
+
+He's a dead one. Rhody might as well give up tryin' to make folks think
+different.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Maybe Rhody holds she's to blame.
+
+BEELER.
+
+To blame? To blame for what?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+For him a-peterin' out.
+
+BEELER.
+
+What's she got to do with it?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Maybe she ain't got nothin' to do with it, and maybe she's got a whole
+lot.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me troublin' you, but--'scuse me troublin' you.
+
+BEELER.
+
+What is it, Abe?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but--Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's
+sake give me that thar devil--pictuh!
+
+BEELER.
+
+What do _you_ want with it?
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+Want to hang it up in my ole cabin.
+
+    _His tone rises to one of eager pleading._
+
+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.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Well, if you feel as strong as that about it, Abe, take it along.
+
+UNCLE ABE.
+
+    _As he unpins it with feverish eagerness._
+
+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.
+
+    _Shakes his fist at the print, as he goes toward the kitchen._
+
+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!
+
+    _Exit._
+
+BEELER.
+
+There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our
+friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Maybe he has!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Thought you said Rhody done it.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and
+his goin's on!
+
+BEELER.
+
+Nonsense!
+
+MARTHA.
+
+If you're so wise, why do _you_ think Michaelis petered out?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Couldn't stand the strain. Bit off more'n he could chaw, in the healin'
+line.--Never looked at Rhody.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Looked at her till he couldn't see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or
+the other place.
+
+BEELER.
+
+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?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Done nothin' but feed him all night long. Seems to be mighty exhaustin'
+work to tend a sick baby.
+
+BEELER.
+
+Does he think it'll live?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Not likely. But he thinks he will, if fed reg'lar.--What do you call
+that trance the baby's in?
+
+BEELER.
+
+Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it out for me: c-o-m-a, comy.
+
+    _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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+Good morning, sir.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Tonelessly._
+
+Good morning.
+
+MARTHA.
+
+    _Pointing at his hat and knapsack._
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Is it any better?
+
+    _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._
+
+MARTHA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What is she doing there?
+
+MARTHA.
+
+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._
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Are you ever going up again, on the rope?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Not remembering._
+
+On the rope?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+You know ... the magic rope.--Ain't you ever going to climb up in the
+sky again?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Recollecting._
+
+Never again, Annie. Never again.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Have you got the rope still?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No, I have lost it.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Won't you ever find it?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It can only be found by some one who will know how to use it better
+than I did.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+How better?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+By some one who can climb up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet
+never leave the earth, the cities, and the people.
+
+ANNIE.
+
+Then he'll have to take them up with him.
+
+    _Michaelis nods for yes._
+
+Gracious!
+
+    _She runs to the porch door to meet Rhoda, who appears outside._
+
+Cousin Rhoda! What do you think he says about the magic rope?
+
+RHODA.
+
+What, Annie?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+He says that first thing you know, everything will be going up in the
+air, towns and people and everything.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Does he?
+
+ANNIE.
+
+    _Runs out into the hall, balancing her arms above her head and
+    gazing up laughingly._
+
+Dear me! That will be very _tippy_!
+
+    _Rhoda enters._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+You are here! The fear came over me, just now--
+
+RHODA.
+
+I could not go until I had told you the truth--about myself--about us.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+A life rooted in the failure of all that life has meant to you from the
+beginning!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Until yesterday I did not know what my life was.
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+Where do you want me to go?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Anywhere--to that place I told you of--high in the great mountains.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I was there last night.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+In your thoughts?
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What was not there?
+
+RHODA.
+
+The work you have to do.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+That was a dream I could not realize. I have striven, and I have
+failed.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Do you know why you have failed?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Tell me why.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+What of the sick and suffering out yonder, who are waiting and hoping
+against hope? What of them?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I cannot help them.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Once you dreamed you could.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes. But that is over.
+
+RHODA.
+
+And who is to blame that that great dream is over?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No one is to blame. It has happened so.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Doesn't it seem strange that the love of a woman entering into your
+heart should take away such a dream as that?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I do not question. It is so.
+
+RHODA.
+
+But if your love had fallen, by some sad chance, upon a woman who was
+not worthy of love?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What are you saying?
+
+RHODA.
+
+You know less than nothing of me. You have not asked me a single
+question about my life.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+There was no need.
+
+RHODA.
+
+There was need! There was need!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Be careful what you say. Go on!
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Why do you call yourself a wicked woman?
+
+RHODA.
+
+Because I am so.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I cannot believe it.
+
+RHODA.
+
+It is true.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Is that why you wanted to go away?
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+    _Long pause._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Wicked? A wicked woman?
+
+RHODA.
+
+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._
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+Good morning.
+
+    _To Michaelis._
+
+Good morning, my friend. I understood that you sent for me, last night.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I did.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+How did you leave the child?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+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 writes on his note pad, tears out a leaf, and lays it on the
+    table._
+
+Mrs. Beeler will continue the old prescription, alternating with this.
+
+    _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._
+
+Will you walk a ways with me, Miss Williams?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Pale and trembling._
+
+No.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Pardon! I must have a short talk. It is important.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I cannot go with you.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+I think you had better reconsider.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Astonished at his tone._
+
+You have heard that she does not wish to go.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Ignoring Michaelis._
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+Who is this man?
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Wheeling upon him angrily._
+
+'Pon my honor! "Who is this man?" "Remove the worm!" Decidedly tart,
+from a miracle-monger in a state of bankruptcy.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+Is this the man you told me of?
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Steadily._
+
+Yes.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _To Rhoda, as he eyes Michaelis with dislike._
+
+So you have called in a father confessor, eh?
+
+    _To Michaelis._
+
+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.
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+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.
+
+    _To Michaelis._
+
+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!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _Holding himself in stern restraint._
+
+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.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+In other keeping, eh? Yours, I suppose.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Yes, mine.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Bless my soul!
+
+    _He turns to Rhoda, pointedly ignoring Michaelis._
+
+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.
+
+    _Rhoda turns distractedly, as to escape; he intercepts her._
+
+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.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Death has already parted you and her.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+So? I feel like a reasonably healthy corpse.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+There is no health in you. Every word you speak gives off corruption.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+Indeed! My advice to you is, make tracks for your starvation desert. A
+parcel of locoed Indians are about right for a busted prophet.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+    _He advances upon him threateningly._
+
+Instantly, I say, or by the wrath of God your wretched soul, if you
+have one, shall go this hour to its account!
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _Backing toward the door, scared, but keeping his brazen tone._
+
+All right.--I'm off.--Caveman for caveman, you've got the reach!
+
+    _To Rhoda._
+
+But remember, my lady, we're not quits by a jug-full. You'll hear from
+me yet.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+She shall never hear from you, nor of you.
+
+LITTLEFIELD.
+
+    _In the door._
+
+Last call, old girl!--Women!
+
+    _He goes out, slamming the door behind him. Long pause._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Poor child! Poor child!
+
+RHODA.
+
+I am sorry that you have had to suffer this.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It is you who have suffered.
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+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.
+
+    _Michaelis goes to Mrs. Beeler; she gives him her left hand as at
+    first._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+My poor friend!
+
+    _Martha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes out. Mrs. Beeler looks
+    up at Rhoda anxiously._
+
+What were you saying when I came in?
+
+    _As Rhoda does not answer, she turns to Michaelis_.
+
+Something about your defending her.--Against what?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+Nothing. Her nature is its own defence.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Caressing her._
+
+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?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+She has laid her heart bare to me.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+I ask you not to lose hope.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Rousing from her dejection into vague excitement._
+
+You ask me that?--Is there--any hope? Oh, don't deceive me--now! I
+couldn't bear it now!--Is there any hope?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+A half-hour ago I thought there was none. But now I say, have hope.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+    _Eagerly._
+
+Do you? Do you? Oh, I wonder--I wonder if that could be the meaning--?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+The meaning--?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Of something I felt, just now, as I sat there in my room by the open
+window.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What was it?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I--I don't know how to describe it.--It was like a new sweetness in the
+air.
+
+    _She looks out at the open window, where the spring breeze lightly
+    wafts the curtains._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+The lilacs have opened during the night.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+It was not the lilacs.--I get it now again, in this room.
+
+    _She looks toward the lilies and shakes her head._
+
+No, it is not the lilies either. If it were anyone else, I should be
+ashamed to say what I think.
+
+    _She draws him down and speaks mysteriously._
+
+It is not real flowers at all!
+
+    _Song rises outside--faint and distant._
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+What is it to you?
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+From whose heart does it rise?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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._
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+The light has come into your face again! You are--you are--Oh, my
+brother, what has come to you?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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!
+
+    _Mrs. Beeler rises and goes to meet Rhoda, entering from the
+    porch._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Aunt Mary! You are walking again!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+He told me to arise, and once more my dead limbs heard.
+
+RHODA.
+
+God in His mercy be thanked!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+I rose without knowing what I did. It was as if a wind lifted me.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yes, yes. For good, this time!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+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._
+
+I must go out to them.
+
+    _She turns to Michaelis._
+
+Say that I may go out, and give them the good tidings of great joy.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+May the Lord be with you as you go!
+
+    _To Rhoda, who starts to help her aunt._
+
+Alone!
+
+MRS. BEELER.
+
+Yes, alone. I want to go alone.
+
+    _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:_
+
+The Easter sun has risen, with healing in its wings!
+
+    _She crosses the porch and disappears._
+
+RHODA.
+
+I felt something dragging me back. It was Aunt Mary's spirit.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+No, it was mine.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Yours?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+My spirit, crying to you that I was delivered.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I delivered you. That is enough happiness for one life.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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!
+
+RHODA.
+
+It is not I--who--harm you?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It is you who bless me, and give me back the strength that I had lost.
+
+RHODA.
+
+I?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+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.
+
+RHODA.
+
+Oh, if I thought that could be!
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+By the mystery that is man, and the mercy that is God, I say it is
+so.--
+
+    _Puts his hand on her head, and gazes into her face._
+
+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!
+
+    _A song rises outside, nearer and louder than before._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Against your own words they trust you still.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+It was you who held them to their trust!
+
+RHODA.
+
+You will go out to them now.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+    _As he kisses her._
+
+Until the victory!
+
+    _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._
+
+RHODA.
+
+Shall it be--on earth?
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+On the good human earth, which I never possessed till now!
+
+RHODA.
+
+But now--these waiting souls, prisoned in their pain--
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+By faith all prisoned souls shall be delivered.
+
+RHODA.
+
+By faith.
+
+MICHAELIS.
+
+By faith which makes all things possible, which brings all things to
+pass.
+
+    _He disappears. Rhoda stands looking after him. The young mother
+    hurries in._
+
+THE YOUNG MOTHER.
+
+    _Ecstatic, breathless._
+
+Come here--My baby! I believe--I do believe--
+
+    _She disappears._
+
+RHODA.
+
+    _Following her._
+
+I believe. I do believe!
+
+    _The music rises into a vast chorus of many mingled strains._
+
+
+CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY'S
+
+The Great Divide                         _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
+
+
+"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._
+
+                     *      *      *      *      *
+
+PUBLISHED BY
+THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
+64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
+
+
+
+
+A LIST OF PLAYS
+
+
+By WINSTON CHURCHILL
+
+The Title-Mart                              _75 cents net_
+    A comedy of American Society, wherein love and the young folks go
+    their way in spite of their elders and ambition.
+
+
+By CLYDE FITCH
+
+The Climbers                                       _75 cents net_
+The Girl with the Green Eyes                       _75 cents net_
+Her Own Way                                        _75 cents net_
+The Stubbornness of Geraldine                      _75 cents net_
+The Truth                                          _75 cents net_
+    Ingenious satires on modern society, unhackneyed in incident,
+    piquant in humor, showing minute observation happily used. Each
+    is bound in cloth, with white paper label.
+
+
+By THOMAS HARDY
+
+The Dynasts: a Drama of the Napoleonic Wars
+    _In Three Parts_                             _Each $1.50 net_
+
+
+By LAURENCE HOUSMAN
+
+Bethlehem: A Musical Nativity Play                    _$1.25 net_
+
+
+By HENRY ARTHUR JONES
+
+Mrs. Dane's Defence                                _75 cents net_
+Michael and His Lost Angel                         _75 cents net_
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