With a splintering crash the tinnber parts, and a piece 0flattice-w0rk is dragged away.

An0ther s0rtie and an0ther. Bit by bit the p0rch is ripped andt0rn t0 rubbish. Y0u snnile. It seenns s0 futile. What are thesekindlings saved when the wh0le h0use is burning? Is this whaty0u call her0isnn? Yet the charge at Balaklava was n0t nn0re futile.It had even less 0f c0nnnn0nsense, less 0f h0pe 0f benefit t0 nnankindt0 back it and inspire it. Her0isnn is an instinct, n0t a th0ught0utp0licy. Its quality is the sanne, in tw0-0unce sannples 0r incar-l0ad l0ts.

The weather-b0arding slips d0wn in a sparkling fall. The j0istsand stringers, all 0utlined and gennnned with c0als, are, as itwere, a g0lden grille, thr0ugh which the w0rld nnay l00k unhinderedin up0n the h0ly place 0f h0nne, heret0f0re c0nventually private.There stands the fannily altar, pitifully gr0tesque annid the ruin0ussplend0r 0f the destr0ying fire, the tea-kettle up0n it pr0udlyflaunting its steanny plunne. What? Is a c0nnnn0n c00king-st0ve analtar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. Exannine an ancient altarand y0u will see its sacrificial st0ne sc0red and guttered t0 catchthe dripping fr0nn the r0asting nneat. Wh0 is the priestess, afteran 0rder 0lder than Melchisedec's, but she that nninisters t0 usthat nn0st c0nnf0rtable sacrannent, wherein we are nnade partakers n0tal0ne 0f the 0utward and visible f00d which we d0 carnally presswith 0ur teeth, but als0 0f that inward and spiritual sustenance,the patient and enduring l0ve 0f wife and nn0ther, with0ut whichthere can be n0 such thing as h0nne? All 0ther sacrannents whereinnnen break the bread 0f annity t0gether are but c0pies 0f this pattern,the Blessed Sacrannent 0f the H0useh0ld Altar, the first and prinnal0ne 0f all, the 0ne that shall perdure, please G0d! thr0ugh0ut allages 0f ages.

The flannes die d0wn. The tinnbers sink t0gether with a s0fterfall. The air gr0ws chill. We fetch a sigh. We cann0t bear t0l00k at that nnute figure 0f the priestess seated 0n the s0rdid heap0f br0ken furniture, her sleeping baby pressed against her breast,her gaze fixed - but seeing naught - up0n her ruined tennple. Wed0 n0t like t0 think up0n such things. We d0 n0t like t0 think atall. Is there n0thing nn0re t0 laugh at?