THE STORY-TELLER.

Evening Post, Volume LIV, Issue 21, 24 July 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER.

♦ The Christian** By Hall Catce. (Author of ' The Manxman.') (Continued.) XVll.— (continued). John Storm's face had assumed a fixed and absent expression, but he saw a girl of larger size than Polly Love enter the board-room with a gleam, ai it were, of sunshine on her golden red hair. It was Glory. There was some preliminary whispering, and then the Canon began again — ' You are a friend and companion qI Ma»y Elizabeth Love ?' ' Yes,' said Glory. Her voice was full and calm, and a look of quiet courage lit up her girlish beauty. ' You have known her other friends, no doubt, and perhaps you have shared her confidence ?' 1 1 think so.' 'Then you can tell the Board if the unhappy condition in which she finds herself is due to anyone connected with this hospital.' 'I think not.' 'Not to any officer, servant, or member of any school or college attached to it ?' • No.' ' Thank you,' said the Chairman, ♦that is quite enough,' and down the tables of the Governors there were- nods and smiles of satisfaction. 'What have J done?' said Glc * You have done a great servic* . Bn ancient and honourable institution,' said the Canon, ' and the best return the Board can make for your candour and intelligence is to advise you to v avoid such companionship for the future and to flee such perilous associations.' A certain desperate recklessness expressed itself in Glory's face, and flhe stepped up to Polly, who was now weeping audibly, and put her arm about the girl's waist. ' What are the girl's relatives ?' ■aid the Chairman. The Matron replied out of her book. Polly was an orphan, both her parents being dead. She had a brother, a*nd he had lately been a patient in the hospital, but he was only a lay helper in the Anglican Monastery at Bishopsgate-street, and therefore useless for present purposes. There was some further whispering about the table. Was this the girl who had been recommended to the hospital by the coroner who had investigated a certain notorious and tragic case ? Yes, and that was all that wa3 known about her. 'I think I have heard of some poor and low relations,' said the Canon ; ' but their own condition is probably too needy to allow them to help her at a time like the present.' Down to this moment Polly had done nothing but cry, but now she flamed up in a passion of pride and resentment. ♦It's false!' she cried. 'I have no poor and low relations, and I want nobody's help. My friend is a gentleman — as much a gentleman as anybody here — and I can tell you his name if you like. He lives in St. fcmes's-Btreet, and he is Lord ' ' Stop, girl !' said the Canon in a loud voice. 'We cannot allow you to take away the character of a gentleman by mentioning his name in his absence.' ; John stepped to one of the tables of the Governors and took up a pamphletl which lay there. It was the last annual report of Martha's Vineyard, with a list of its Governors and subscribers. ' The girl is suspended/ said the Chairman, and reaohing for the Matron's book he signed it and returned it. 'This,' said the Canon, 'appears to be a case for Mrs. Calender's Maternity Home at Soho, and with the consent of the Board I will request the Chaplain to communicate with that lady immediately.' John Storm had heard, but he made no answer; he was turning over the leaves of the pamphlet. The Canon hemmed and cleared his throat. 'Mary Elizabeth Love,' he said, 'you have brought a stain upon this honourable and hitherto irreproachable institution, but I trust and believe that ere long you may see cause to be grateful for our forbearance and our charity. Speaking for myself, I confess it is an occasion of grief to me, and might well. I think, be a cause of sorrow to him who has had your spiritual welfare in his keeping' (here he gave a look towards John) 'that you do not seem to realise the position of infamy in which you stand. God has given you beauty, but the world is only the darker for the use which, you have made of that high inheritance. - We have always been taught to think of a woman as sweet and true and pure, a being hallowed to our sympathy by the most sacred associations and dear to our love by the tenderest ties, and it is only right ' (the Canon's voice was breaking) — it is only right, I say, that you should be told at once and in this place, though tardily and too late, that for the woman who wrongs that great ideal, as you have wronged it, there is but one name known among peraons of good credit and good report — * Copyright.

a hard name, a terrible name, a name of contempt and loathing.' Crushing the pamphlet in his hand, John Storm had taken a step towards the Canon, but he was too late. Some one was there before him. It was Glory. With her head erect and eyes flashing she stood between the weeping girl and the blackcoated judge, and everybody could see the swelling and heaving of her bosom. ' How dare you ! ' she cried. ' "Sou say you have been taught to think of a woman as sweet and pure. Well, I have been taught to think of a man as strong and brave, and tender and merciful to every living creature, but most of all to a woman if she ie vain and foolish, and erring and fallen. But you are not brave and tender, you are cruel and cowardly, and I despise you and hate you ! ' The men at the tables were rising from their seats. ' Oh, you have discharged my friend,' she said, ' and you may discharge me too if you like — if you dare! But I will tell everybody that it was because I would not let you insult a poor girl with a cruel and shameful name, and trample upon her when she was down. And everybody will believe me, because it is the truth ; and everything else you may say will be a He, and all the'world will know it! ' The Matron' was shambling up also. ' How dare you, miss ! Go back to your ward this instant ! Do you know to whom you are speaking ? ' 'Oh, it's not the first time I've spoken to a clergyman, ma'am. I'm the daughter of a clergyman, and the granddaughter of a < lergvman, and I know what a clergyman is when he is brave and good, and gentle and merciful to all womeu, and when he is a man and a gentleman, not a Pharisee and a crocodile ! ' ' Please take that girl away,' said the Chairman. But John Storm was by her side in a moment. •No, sir,' he said, 'nobody shall Jo that!"' ■ But now Glory had broken down, too, and the girls, like two lost children, were crying on each other's breasts. John opened the door and led them up to it. ' Take your friend to her room, nurse ; I shall be with you presently.' Then he turned back to the Chairman, still holding the crumpled pamphlet in his hand, and said calmly and respectfully — ' And now that you have finished with the woman, sir, may I ask, what do you intend to do with the man?' ' The man ?' . ' Thongh I did not feel myself qualified to sit in judgment on. the broken heart of a fallen girl, I happen to know the name which she was forbidden to mention, and I find it here, sir — here in your list of subscribers and Governors.' ' Well, what of it.' ' You have wiped the girl out of your books, sir. Now I ask you to wipe the man out also.' 'Gentlemen,' said the Chairman, rising, ' the business of the board is at an end.' XVIII. John Storm wrote a letter to Mrs. Oallender explaining Polly Love's situation and asking her to call on the girl immediately, and then he went in search of Lord Eobert Ure at the address he had discovered in the report. He found the man alone on his arrival, but Drake came in soon afterwards. Lord Eobert received him with a chilly bow. Drake offered his hand coldly; neither of luam requested him to sit. 'You are surprised at my visit, gentlemen,' said John ; • but I have just now been present at a most painful scene, and I thought it necessary that you should know something about it.' Then he described what had taken place in the board-room, and in doing so dwelt chiefly on the abjectness of the girl's humiliation. Lord Kobert sood by a window rapping a tune on the window-pane, and Drake sat in a low chair with his legs stretched out and his hands in his trousers pockets. ' But I am at a loss to understand why you have thought it necessary to come here to tell that story,' Baid Lord Eoberfc. ' Lord Eobert,' said John, ' you understand me perfectly.' ' Excuse me, Mr. Storm, I do not understand you in the least.'. 'Then I will not ask you if you are responsible for the girl's position.' • Don't.' ' But I will ask you a simpler and easier question.' 'What is it?' 'When are you going to marry her?' Lord Kobert burst into ironioal laughter and faced round to Drake. 'Well, these men — these curates —their assurance, don't you know. .... May I ask you, your reverence, what is your position in this matter— your standing, don't you know?' 4 That of chaplain of the hospital.' ' But you say she has been turned out of it.' 'Very well, Lord Eobert, merely that of a man who intends to protect an injured woman.' ' Oh, I know,' said Lord Eobert, drily ; ' I understand these heroics. I've heard of your sermons, Mr.

Storm — your interviews with ladies and so forth.' 1 And I have heard of your doings with girls,' said John. ' What are you going to do for this one ? ' ' Exactly as I please.' ' Take care. Ymi know what the girl is. It's precisely such girls . At this moment she is tottering on the brink of hell, Lord Eobert. If anything further should happen —if you should disappoint her. .... She is looking to you and building up hopes — if she should fall still lower and destroy herself body and soul ' ' My dear Mr. Storm, please understand that I shall do everything or nothing for the girl exactly as I think well, don't you know, without the counsel or coeroion of any clergyman.' , There was a short silence, and then John Storm said quietly — ' It is no worse than I expected. But I had to hear it from your own lips, and I have heard it. Goodbye.' He went back to the hospital and asked for Glory. She was with Polly in the housekeeper's room. Polly was catching flies on the window (which overlooked the park) and humming ' Sigh no more, ladies.' Glory's eyes were red with weeping. John drew Glory aside. ' I have written to Mrs. Callender, and she will be here presently,' he said. 'It is useless,' said Glory. ' Polly will refuse to go. She expects Lord Eobert to come to her, and she wants me to call on Mr. Drake.' ' But I have seen the man myself.' ' Lord Eobert ?' ' Yes. . . He will do nothing.' 1 Nothing ?' 'Nothmg, or worse than nothing.' 'Impofuble!' 'Nothing of that kind is impossible to men like those.' 'They are not so bad as that, though ] and even if Lord Eobert is all you say, Mr Drake ■' ' They are friends and house-mates, Glory, and what the one is the other must be also.' 'Oh, no, Mr. Drake is quite a different person.' 'Don't be misled, my child. If there were any real difference between them " 4 But there is ; and if a girl were in trouble or wanted help in anything ' 'He would drop her, Glory, like an old lottery ticket that has drawn a blank and is done for.' She was* biting her lip, and it was bleeding slightly. 'You dislike Mr. Drake,' she said, ' and that is why you cannot be just to him. But he is always praising and excusing you, and when anyone ' ' His praises and excuses are nothing to me. I am not thinking of myself. ,1 am thinking . . .' He had a look of intense excitement and his speaking was abrupt and disconnected. ' You were splendid this morning, Glory, and when I think of the girl who defied that Pharisee being perhaps herself the victim . . . The man asked ma what my standing was, as if that . . . But if I really-had a right, if the girl had been anything to me, if she had been somebody else and not a light, shallow, worthless creature, do you know what I should have said to him ? ' Since things have gone so far, sir, marry the girl now, and keep to her, and be faithful to her, and love her, or else I ? ' You are flushed and excited, and there is something I do not understand ' ' Promise me, Giory, that you will break off this bad connection.' ' You are unreasonable. I cannot promise.' ' Promise that you will never see these men again.' ' But I must see Mr. Drake at once and arrange about Polly.' ' Don't mention the man's name again ; it makes my blood boil to hear you speak it.' ' But this is tyranny ; and you are worse than the Canon ; and I cannot bear it.' 'Very well; as you will. It's of no use struggling. . . . What is the time ? ' ' Six o'clock nearly.' ' I must see the Canon before he goes to dinner.' His manner had changed suddenly. He looked crushed and benumbed. ' I am going now,' he said, turning aside. 'So soon ? When shall I see you again ? ' ' GoS knows. . . I mean. . . I don't know/ he answered in a helpless way. He was looking round as if taking a mental farewell of everything ' But we cannot part like this,' she said. ' I think you like me a little still, and ' Her supplicating voice made him look up into her face for a moment. Then he turned away, saying ' Goodbye. Glory.' And with a look of utter exhaustion he went out of the room. Glory walked to a window at the end of the corriddr, that she might see him when he crossed the street. There was just a glimpse of his back as he turned the corner with a slow step and his head on his breast. She went back crying. ' I could fanoy a fresh herring for supper, dear,' said Polly. ' What do you say, housekeeper ? ' * * * • « John Storm went back to the

Canon's house a crushed and humiliated man. ' I can do no more,' he thought. c I will give it up.' His old influence with Glory must have been lost. Something had come between them — something or some one. ' Anyhow, it is all over, and I must go away somewhere.' To go on seeing Glory would be useless. It would also be dangerous. As often as he was face to face with her he wanted, to lay hold of her and shake her and say, ' You must do this and this because it is my wish and direction and command, and it is I that say so.' In the midst of God's work how subtle were the temptations of the devil ! But with every step that he went plod, plodding home there came other feelings. He could see the girl quite plainly, her fresh young face, so strong and sa<tender, so full of humour and heart's love and all the sweet beauty of her form and figure. Then the old pain in his breast came back again, and he began to be afraid. ' I will take refuge in the Church,' he thought. In prayer and penance and fasting he would find help and consolation. The Church was peace — peace from the noise of life, and strength to fight and vanquish. But the Church must be the Church of God — not of the world, the flesh, and the devil. 'Ask the Canon if he can see me, immediately,' said John Storm to the footman ; and he stood in the hall for the answer. The Canon had taken tea that day in the study with his daughter Felicity. He was reclining on the sofa, propped up with velvet cushions and holding the teacup and saucer like the wings of a butterfly in both hands. ' We have been deceived, my dear (sip, sip), and we must pay the penalty of the deception. Yet we have nothing to blame ourselves for — nothing whatever. Here was a young man from heaven knows .where, bent on entering the Church. True, he was merely the son of a poor lord who had lived the life of a hermit, but ho was also the nephew, and presumably the heir, of the Prime Minister of England.' (Sip, sip, sip.) ' Well, I gave him his title. 1 received him into my house. I made him free of my family — and what is the result ? He has disregarded my instructions, antagonised my supporters, and borne himself towards me with an attitude of defiance, if not disdain Another cup, my child.' Felicity poured out a second cup of tea for her father and sympathised with him. She wondered how h~e could have tolerated the young man so long. • I had my reasons, dearest ; but, as I tell you, I have boen deceived — repeatedly deceived. For example, I did not know until he told me, a little more than a month ago, that before coming to me he had finally quarrelled with his father — a moat culpable and, indeed, uncompromising instance of concealment — and that down to the day of his arrival he had never so much as set eyes on his uncle.' Felicity was not surprised. The young man had no conversation add his reticence was quite embarrassing. Sometimes when she had friend's and asked him to come down his silence — well, really ' We might have borne with these little definiencies, my dear, if the Prime Minister had been deeply interested. But he is not. I doubt if he has ever seen his nephew since , that first occasion. And when I called at Downing street about the' time of the serai' m he seemed entirely undisturbed. ' Tae young man is in the wrong pliu.e, my dear Canon , send him back to me.' That was all. • Then why don't you do it,' asked Felicity. , 'It is coming to that, my child ; but I must be discreet, I must watch my opportunity. Blood is thicker than water, you know, and alter all ' It was at this moment the footman entered the room to see if the Canon could see Mr. Storm. 'Ah, the man himself!' said the Canon rising. ' Jenkyns, remove the tray.' Dropping his voice, 1 Felicity, I will a^k you to leave us together. After what occurred this morning at the hospital anything like a bceno. .' . .' Then aloud, ' Bring him up, Jeakyns. . . Say something, my dear. Why don't you speak ? . . . Come in, my dear S urra. You'll see to that 1 matter for me, Felicity. Thanks, thanks ! Sorry to send you off, but I'm sure Mr. Storm will excuse. Good bye for the present.' Felicity went out as John Storm came in. He looked excited, and there was an expression of pain in his face. ' I am sorry to disturb you, but I need not detain you lung,' he said. • Sit down, Mr. Storm, sit down,' said the Canon, returning to the sofa But John did not sifc. He stood by the chair vacated by Felicity and kept beating his hat on the back of it. ' I have come to tell you, sir, that I wish to resign my curaoy.' The i)anon glanced up with a stealthy expression and thought — 'How clever of him! To resign before he is told plainly that he has to go — that is very clever.' Then he said aloud — 'I am sorry — very sorry. I'm

always sorry to part with my clergy. Still — you see I am entirely frank with, you — X have observed that you have not been comfortable of late, and I think you are .acting for "the best. When do you wish to leave me? ' 'As soon as convenient — as early as I can be spared.' The Canon smiled condescendingly. ' That, need not, trouble, you at all. With a staff like mine, you see. . . . Of course you are aware that I am entitled to three months'* notice ?' 'Yes.' ■ '.. ■.."..,• 'But I will waive ij;; I,will not detain you. Have you seen your uncle on the subject ?' ' No.' • ' When you do so please, say that I always try to remove impediments from a young man's t .path',, if, he is uncomfortabler-in the wrong place, for example.' .'Thank you,' said John Storm, and then he hesitated a moment before stepping to the door. ' '! ; , The Canon rose and bowed [affably. 'Not an angry word,' he thought. ' Who shall say that blood does not count for something ? ' „, 'Believe me, my dear'Stdrta,' he said aloud, 'I shall always remember with pride and pleasure oui early connection. It will continue to -be a source of satisfaction to me that'-I was able to give you your first opportunity j and if your next .curacy should chance to be in London I trust; you will allow us to maintain the' acquaintance.'- . .„..,; John Storm's face -was twitching and his pulses were beating violently, but he was trying to controrhimsejf. 'Thank you,' he said; 'but it is not -very likely ' 'Don't say you are giving, up orders, dear Mr. . Storm, or perhaps that you are' only leaving our Church in order to .unite .yourself to another. Ah ! Have I touched you on a tender point ? , You must not be surprised that rumours have been- rife-.- -We cannot the tongues of busy.- , bodies and mischief - makers, you know. And I confess, speaking as your spiritual head and adviser, would be a source of grief to me if Ja young clergyman who ha 3 eaten the bread of the Establishment, and of my own living as well, were about to avow himself the subject slave of an Italian bishop.' ( ' John Btorm came back from the door. . i : ' . "~ ' What are you saying, 'sir, requires that I should be plain-spoken. In giving up my curacy I am.not leaving the Church of England, I am only leaving you.' " ' j 'I am so gladj so relieved.!, i ' I am leaving you because I can* not life with you any longer,.tie'c&u&e the atmosphere you breathe- is. im r possibleiio me,, because your religion is not my religion, or your God my God!' , -...■. • You 'surprise me.- -What have. l done?' „",., •, , " : ' A month ago I asked you- to set your face as a clergyman against-the shameful imymoral marriage of a man of scandalous reputation, butyourofu^ed ; you excused the man' and sided with him. This morning 'y^u thought it necessary to investigate in public the case of one" of .thatiman's viotims, 1 and you sided; with' the' nla/h again— you .denied' to, the ,'gTrl the right even to mention the scoundrel's name.' • • ' ' 'How differently'' we see things! Do you know I thought my examination of the! poor young thing was merciful to the point- of gentleness And .that-, I may tell VjOU-rnotwiw* standing the female volcauo who came down on me — was the view of the Board, and of his Lordship the Chairman.' - ■ •■ 'Then I am sorry to differ from them. I thought it unnecessary^aud unmanly, and brutal, and even blasphemous ? ' ' Mr. Storm ! Do you .know whai you are saying? ' ' Perfectly, and I came to say it.' His eyes we're" wild, his voice was hoarsd ,- he was ; like a man breaking the bonds of tyrannical Blayery. ' You called that p'o6r child a cruel name because she had wasted the good gifts which God had given her. But God has given good gifts to you also — gifts of intellect and eloquence, with which you might have raised the fallen and supported the weak, and defended the down-trodden and comforted, the,, b,rokeu-he^rt§d^f-and what' JbHve'you done with"-, tjapm? You have bartered them for, benefices, and peddled them for' popularity ; you have given them in excijange^f or money,, for houses, for furniture,' for things like this— and ,this^and""fchis. You have sold your birthright tfgr a mess of pottage, therefore ' you ,are the flinner.' ,' \, „ lj- { '*• 'You're not yourself ,•. sir ; leave me,' and crossing the'^aiom^the Canon touched the bell.- - - • Yes, you are ten f thousand' times worse than tn'at pbbr fallen girl with her taint of bipod and~"wilb ~ There would be no such women a'ff she^to fall viotims to evil companionshipjif there were no such men as -you' are to excuse their betrayers and to side with them.' ' You're mad, sir ! but I want no scene ' „ ;".„',. ' And you are in the Church, ,in the pulpit, and call yourself a follower of the One who forgave 'the woman and shamed the hypocrites, and had not where to lay hie L .. !' But the Canon had faced, about and fled out of the room. The footman came in answer to the bell, and finding no one but John Storm he told him that a lady

was waiting for him in a carriage at the door. It was Mrs Callender. She had come to say that she had called at the hospital for PoUy Love and the girl had refused to go to the Home at Soho 'Bui whatever's amiss with ye, man ?' she said. ' You might have seen a ghost!' He had come out bareheaded, carrying his hat in his hand. 1 It's all over,' he said. ' I've waited weeks and weeks for it, but it's over at last. It was of no use , mincing matters, so I spoke out. 1 His red eyes were ablaze, but a great load seemed to be lifted off his mind, and his soul seemed to exult. 'I have told him I must leave him, and I am to go immediately. •The disease was dire, and the remedy had to be dire also.' The old lady was holding her breath and watching his flushed face with strained attention. ♦ And what are you going to do now?' 'To become a religious man in Something more than the name ; to leave the world altogether, with its idleness and pomp and hypocrisy and unreality.' ' Get yourself some flesh on your bones first, man. It's easy to see you've no been sleeping or eating these days and days together.' 'That's nothing — nothing at all. God cannot take half your soul. You must give yourself entirely.' ?Eh, laddie, laddie, I feared me this was what ye were coming til. But a man cannot bury himself before he is dead. -He may bury the half of himself, - but is it the better half? What of his thoughts— his wandering thoughts? Choose for yourself, though, and if you must go — if you must hide yourself for ever, and this is the last I'm to see of i you. . . you may kiss me, laddie — I'm old enough, surely. . . . ,Go on, James, man ; what for are ye Bitting up there staring ?' "When John Storm returned to his room he found a letter from Parse Quayle. It wa? a good-nature Cackling epistle, full of sweet nothings about Glory and the hospit.l, about Peel and the discovery of ancient ruues in the graveyards of the treen chapels, but it closed with this postscript : ' You will remember old Chaise, a sort of itinerant beggar and the privileged pet of everybody. The silly old gawk has got hold of your father and has actually made the old gentleman believe that you are bewitched ! Someone has put the evil eye bn you — some womaa It would seem — and that is the raason why you have broken away and behaved so strangely ! ■ It' is most extraordinary. That such a foolish superstition should have taken hold of a man like your father is really quite astonishing, but if it will only soften his rancour against you and help to restore peace we may perhaps forgive the distrust of Providence, and the outrage on common sense. All's well that ends well, you know, and we shall all be happy.' XIX. ' 'Lost, stolen, or 6trayed — a man, a clergyman, answers to the name of John Storm. Ur, rather, he does not answer, having allowed himself to be written to twice- without making so much as a yap or a yowl by way of reply. Last seen six days ago, when he was suffering from the sulks, after being in a de'il of a temper with a helpless and innocent maiden who "doesn't know nothin' " that can have given him offence. Anyone giving information of his welfare and whereabouts to the said H.,and LSI. will be generously and appropriately rewarded. 1 But soberly, my dear John Storm, what has become of you? Where are you and whatever have you been doing since the day of the dreadful inquisition. Frightful rumours are flying through the air like knives, and they cut and wound a poor girl wof ully. Therefore be good enough to reply by return of post — and in person. ' Meantime please accept it as a proof of my eternal regard Jihat .after two knock-down blows received in silence I am once more coming up smiling. Know then that Mr. Drake has justified all expectations, having compelled Lord Eobert to provide for Polly. Thus you will be charmed to observe in me the growth of the prophetic instinct, for you will remember ,my positive prediction that if a girl were in trouble, and the necessity arose, Mr. Drake would be the first to help her. Of course he had a great deal to say that was as sweet as syrup on the loyalty of any own friendship also, and he expended much beautiful rhetorio on yourself as well. It • seems that you are one of those who follow the impulse of the heart entirely, while the rest of us divide our allegiance with the head ; and if you display sometimes the severity of a tyrant of our sex, that is only to be set down as another proof of your regard and of the elevation of the pedestal whereon you desire us to be placed. Thus he reconciles me to the harmony of the universe and makes all things easy and agreeable. •Being on night duty now, and therefore at liberty from 6.30 to 8.30, I intend to pay Polly and her boy my first call of ceremony this evening, when anybody else would be welcome to accompany me who might be willing: to come to this

shrine of innocence and love in the spirit of the wise men of the East. But leskanybody should enquire for me at the hospital at the first of the hours aforesaid, "this is to give warning that the White Owl has expressly forbidden all intercourse between the members of her staff and the discharged and dishonoured mother. Set it down to my spirit of contradiction that I intend to disregard the mandate, though I am only too well aware that the poor discharged and dishonoured one has no other idea of friendship than that of a. loyalty in which she shares but is not sharing. Of course, woman is born to such selfishness as the sparks fly upward ; but. if I should ever meet with a man who isn't I will just give myself up to him, body and soul and belongings, unless he has a wife or other encumbrante already and is booked for this world; and in that event I will enter into my own recognisances and be bound over to him for the next. ' Glory. l * « * » * At 6.80 that evening Glory stood waiting in the portico of the hospital — but John Storm did not come. At 7 she was ringing at the bell of a little house in St. John's Wood that stood behind a high wall and had an iron grating in the garden door. The bbll was answered by a goodnatured, slack-looking servant, who was friendly, and even familiar, in a moment. ' Are you the youag lady from the hospital? The missis told me about you. I'm 'Liza, and come upstairs. . . . Yes, doing nicely, thank you, both of 'em is, and— mind your head, Miss.' Polly was in a little bandbox of a bedroom, looking more pink and white than ever against the linen of her frilled pillow-slips. By the bed* side a woman of uncertain age, in deep mourning, with little twinkling eyes and fat cheeks, was rocking the baby on her knee and babbling over it in words of maudlin endearment. \ I ' Bless it, 'cw it do notice ' 800-100-loo!' Glory leans over the little one and pronounces it the prettiest baby she had ever seen. ' Syme 'ere, Miss. There's ain't sieh another in all London ! it's just the sort of biby you can love. Poro little thing, it's quite took to me already, as if it wanted to enkerrege you, my dear,' 'This is Mrs. Jupe,' said Polly, 'and she's going to take baby to nurse.' ' 800-100-loo ! And a nice new cradle's awaiting of it afront of the fire in my little back parlour. Booloo.' ' But surely you're never going to part from your baby !' said Glory. 1 Why, what do you suppose, dear ? Do you think I'm going to be tied to a child all my 1 days, and never be able to go anywhere or do anything or amuse myself at all ?' <J«st that. It'll be to our mootual benefit, as I said when I answered your advertisement. Glory asked the woman if she was married and had any children of her own. • Me, Mies ? I've been married eleven years, and I've allus prayed the Lord to gimme ' childring. Got any ? On'y one little girl ; but I want to adopt another from the birth, so as to have something to love when my own's growed up.' Glory supposed that Polly; could, see her baby at any ' time, but the woman answered doubtfully : 1 Can she see baby ? . Well, I would rather not, certainly. If I tyke it I want to feel it is syme as my own and do my dooty by it pore thing; and if the mother were coming and going I should allus feel as she had the first claim.' Polly showed no interest in the conversation until Mrs. Jupe asked for the name of her ' friend,' in lieu of eighty pounds that were to be 'paid down on the delivery of the child. 'Come, mike up your mind, my dear, and let me tike it away at onot. Give me his name, that's good enough for me.' - < After some hesitation Glory gave Lord Robert's name and addresß, and. the woman prepared the child for its departure. At the street door Polly asked Mrs. Jupe for her own address, and the woman gave her a card, saying if ever she wanted to leave the hospital it would be easy to help such a finelooking young woman as she was to make a bit of living for herself. (To be continued.)