What was Alice Lister doing on the night when Tom prayed? If it had been a night of wonder to Tom, it had been a night of decision to Alice Lister, who had to face another crisis in her life. While Tom had been offering his almost inarticulate prayer in the trenches in the Ypres salient, Alice Lister sat alone in her bedroom.

More than a year had passed since the Sunday afternoon when she had told Tom that he must make his choice between her and the life he seemed determined to lead. What it had cost her to do this I will not try to describe, for Alice had truly cared for Tom. It was true that he did not quite belong to her class, and it was also true that her parents had done their best to dissuade her from thinking about him; but Alice had been fond of Tom: something, she knew not what, had drawn her heart towards him. She had believed in him too; believed that he was possessed of noble qualities which only she understood. Then as she saw Tom drifting, she knew that her decisive step must be taken, and she had taken it.

Afterwards, when she was told how Tom had risen in the great crowd at the hall in the Mechanics’ Institute, and had gone up to the platform and volunteered for active service, her heart had thrilled strangely. She did not understand much about the war, but she felt that Tom had done a noble thing. In spite of the fact, too, that he had left her to walk out with Polly Powell, she had a sense of possession; it seemed to her that Tom belonged to her more than to this highly coloured buxom girl who had taken him from her.

Then something happened which set the people at the church she attended talking freely. The young minister was a bachelor, and it was evident he was enamoured with Alice; he paid her marked attention, and eagerly sought to be in her company.

“That’s something like,” said many of Alice’s friends; “Alice will make a splendid minister’s wife.”

But when at length Mr. Skelton proposed to Alice, she had no difficulty in answering him. He could offer her a far better position than Tom dreamed of; the work she would have to do as a minister’s wife, too, would be thoroughly in accord with her tastes and desires. But Alice cared nothing for Mr. Skelton. Her heart was sad when she saw how pale he looked at her refusal, but she had no hesitation.

The problem which faced her now, however, was not so easy to settle. Young Harry Briarfield was not a comparative stranger like Mr. Skelton; she had known him all her life, they had been brought up together in the same town, they had gone to Sunday School together, they had sung duets together at concerts, and although she had never looked at Harry in the light of a lover she had always been fond of him.

Harry was in a good position too; his father was a manufacturer in a fairly large way, and he had just been admitted as a partner into the business. He was twenty-four years of age now, was highly respected throughout the town, and was looked upon as one who in a few years would hold his head high among commercial men.

During the last few weeks Harry had come often to Mr. Lister’s house, ostensibly to talk about business, but really to see Alice.

Mr. and Mrs. Lister had nudged each other and smiled at Harry’s frequent visits.

“I knew our Alice would do the right thing,” said Mr. Lister to his wife; “for a time she went silly about that Pollard boy, but she threw him over of her own accord. Harry’s a nice lad, and he’s making a tidy bit of brass, while George Briarfield has about made his pile. In two or three years Harry will have the business entirely in his own hands, and then there will not be a better chance in Brunford for her.”

Mrs. Lister sighed.

“I don’t think our Alice has forgotten Tom Pollard, though,” she replied.

“Nonsense,” replied her husband, “what is the good of her thinking about Tom? I thought he would have done well at one time, and if he hadn’t taken up with that Polly Powell lot he might have got on; but he did, and then he went for a soldier. What is the good of our Alice thinking about him? Even if the war were to finish next week and Tom were to come back, it would take him years, even if he had good luck, to make five pound a week, while Harry’s making a thousand a year if he’s making a penny.”

“Ay, I know,” replied Mrs. Lister, “but you can never judge a lass’s heart. You know how it was wi’ us, George; at the very time you asked me to be your wife you were only making thirty-three shillings a week, and William Pott was making hundreds a year. He was a far better chance nor you, George, and people said I was a fool for not taking him; but I couldn’t.”

“That was a different thing,” said George Lister hastily, “that Pollard boy went wrong. Besides, we need not think about that now; Alice gave him up, and very likely he will be killed.”

On the night when Tom was alone in the trenches, Harry Briarfield made his way to Mr. Lister’s house, and it was not long before Alice and he were left alone together. Harry had made up his mind to make his proposal that night, and he had but little doubt as to the result.

“Look here, Alice,” he said presently, “I want to say something to you, something very particular. You must have seen for a long time how fond I am of you, and perhaps you have wondered why I haven’t spoken. I wanted to badly enough, but I waited until father took me into partnership. You see,” he went on, “at the beginning of the war things were going bad with us; there was a boom in the cotton trade about a year ago, but when the war broke out there was a regular slump, and we thought we were going to be ruined. Now, however, things are going very well again. We have got some war contracts, and we are making money.”

Alice’s heart beat wildly, although by an effort she appeared calm.

“I wonder you have not joined the Army, Harry,” she said; “every day there’s a call for more men.”

“Not if I know it,” replied Harry. “At one time I did think of trying for a commission, but that would have been foolish: you see I might not have been able to have got it, and of course a man in my position could not go as a Tommy.”

“Why not?” asked Alice quickly. “I am told that lots of men of every order join as privates.”

“No, thank you,” replied Harry, with a laugh. “I know one chap who did that; Edgar Burton. Do you know him? He joined at the beginning of the war, but he quickly got sick of it. He said the life was terrible; he described to me how he had to wash up dishes, and scrub the floors of his barracks, and how he had to be pals with a lot of chaps who didn’t know the decencies of life. Besides, think of me on a shilling a day!”

“Still, if your country needs you?” suggested Alice.

“I am doing more important work at home,” replied Harry; “they could not do without me at the mill. It’s all very well for boys like Tom Pollard, who used to be so fond of you, but for people like me it’s different.”

There was a silence for a few minutes, and then Harry went on again:

“Alice, you know how fond I am of you in fact, I have loved you all my life. You will marry me, won’t you?”

Harry was very disappointed, and not a little surprised, that Alice did not answer in the affirmative right away; but he had conceded with fairly good grace when she had asked for a few days to think about it.

“It is all right,” said Harry to himself as he left the house that night, “I am sure she means yes. And she’s a fine lass, the finest in Brunford.”

That was why Alice sat alone that night thinking. She had promised to give Harry her definite reply in three days’ time, and although she was very fond of him she could not bring herself to give him the answer he desired. When he had left the house her father and mother had come into the room.

“Well, Alice, have you fixed it up?”

She shook her head, but didn’t speak.

“Come now, lass, you needn’t be so shy. I know he’s asked you to wed him; he asked for my permission like a man, and then he told me he was going to speak to you to-night. You can’t do better, my dear. Have you fixed it all up?”

“No,” she said.

“What!” cried the father, “you don’t mean to say you have been such a fool as to say no!”

“I have said nothing as yet,” was her answer.

George Lister heaved a sigh of relief. “Ay, well,” he said, “it’s perhaps a good thing not to say yes at once. Hold him back two or three days and it will make him all the more eager. When a man comes to me to buy cloth I never shows as ’ow I am eager to sell. But of course you will take him?”

“I don’t know,” replied Alice.

“Don’t know! Why don’t you know? You like him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, father,” she replied, and then she rushed out of the room.

“What’s the meaning of this, lass?” said George Lister to his wife. “Has she told you anything?”

“Not a word,” said Mrs. Lister.

“But surely she can’t be such a fool as to refuse Harry! Why, there isn’t a better chap in Brunford! He’s an only son, and his father’s brass will go to him when he dies.”

But Mrs. Lister did not speak a word; in her eyes was a far-away look, as though she saw something which her husband did not see.

As for Alice, she sat for a long time thinking in silence.

Harry’s words still rang in her ears; the memory of the look on his face as he left her still remained. Still she could not make up her mind. Yes, she liked Harry, in a way she admired him. He was a teacher in the Sunday School, he was a good business man, he was clever, and he was respected in the town; and yet she hesitated.

Hour after hour passed away, and still she could not make up her mind. In spite of Harry Briarfield’s words she had not forgotten the lad from whom she had parted months before. Why was it? She thought she had forgotten him. He had been unworthy of her; he had taken up with a girl whom she despised, a coarse, vulgar girl, and she had heard since that Polly Powell had been walking out with a number of young men. And Tom had preferred this kind of creature to her love. Her pride had been wounded, her self-respect had been shocked, and yet even now, while she was thinking of Harry Briarfield’s proposal, her mind reverted to the boy who had gone away as a soldier.

The Town Hall clock boomed out the hour of midnight. Alice found herself mechanically counting the strokes of the deep-toned bell. Then she fell on her knees beside the bed, but the prayer which she had been wont to pray did not come to her lips. Her thoughts were far away; she pictured a distant battlefield; she imagined the boom of guns; she heard the clash of bayonets; she thought she heard the cries of wounded men, too; then a prayer involuntarily came to her lips:

“O God, save him! O God, help him and protect him!”

Thus it came to pass at the time Tom Pollard tried for the first time in many months to pray, and to formulate his distracted thoughts, Alice Lister was kneeling by her bedside also trying to pray.