So she rode in her pride. And sometimes, she dashed into flames to rescue a forgotten child; or she dived into the canal locks and supported a boy who was seized with cramp; or she swept up a toddling infant from the feet of a runaway horse: always imaginatively, of course.

But in the end there returned the poignant yearning from the Sunday world. As she went down in the morning from Cossethay and saw Ilkeston smoking blue and tender upon its hill, then her heart surged with far-off words:

“Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem — how often would I have gathered thy children together as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not — ”

The passion rose in her for Christ, for the gathering under the wings of security and warmth.