THE STORY-TELLER. The Christian,*

Evening Post, Volume LIV, Issue 111, 6 November 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER. The Christian,*

By Hall Came. Author of ' The Manxman,' &c.) Booi 111. IX. 'Glenfaba. *Oh, my dear John Storm, is it coals of fire you are heaping on my head, or fire of brimstone? Your last letter with its torrents of enthusiasm came sweeping down on me like a flood. What work you are in the midst of ! What a life ! What a purpose ! While I— l am lying here like an old slipper thrown up on the -sea beach. Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it! It must be glorious to be in the rush and swirl of all this splendid effort, whatever comes of it. One's soul is thrilled, one's heart expands. As for me, the garden of my mind is withering, and I am consuming the seed I ought to sow. 'Eosa has come. She has been here a month nearly, and is just charming, say what you will. Her thoughts have the dash of the great world, and I love to hear her talk. True, she troubles me sometimes, but that is only my envy and malice and all uncharitableness. When she tells of Betty this, and Ellen that, and their wonderful triumphs and successes, I'm the meanest sinner that crawls. 'It's funny to see the old folk bear themselves towards her. Aunt Eachel regards her as a sort of artist, and is clearly afraid that she will break out into madness in spots somewhere. Aunt Anna disapproves of her hair, which is brushed up like a man's, and of her skirt, which " would be no worse if it were less like a pair of breeches," for she has brought her "bike." She talks on dangerous subjects also, and nobody did such things in Auntie's own young days. Then she addresses the old girlies as I do, and calls grandfatter "Granddad," and, like the witch of Endor, generally is possessed of a familiar spirit. Of course I give her various warning looks from time to time, lest the fat should be in the fire, but she's a woman, bless her, and it's as true as ever it was that a woman can keep the secret she doesn't know. ' Yes ! The ideal of womanhood has changed since the old aunties were young, but when I listen to Eosci and then look over at Eachel with her black ringlets, and at Anna with her old fashioned "front," I shudder and ask myself, " Why do 3 struggle ?" What is the reward if one gives up the fascination of life and the world ? There is no reward Nothing but solitary old maidism. unless two of you happen to be sisters, for who else will join her shame to yours ? A- dame's school, somewhere, when the old father is gone, but no children of your own to love you, nobody to think of you. scraping a little here, pinching a little there, growing older and smaller year by year, looking yellow and craned, like an apple that has been kept on the top shelf too long, and then . . . tne end ! ' Oh, but I'm trying so hard, so very hard, to be " true to the higher self in me," because somebody says I must. What do you think I did last week ? In my character of Lady Bountiful I gave an Old Folks' Supper in the soup kitchen — understood to be in honour of my return. Roast beef and plum duff, not to speak of pipes and 'baccy, and forty old people of both sexes sitting down to " the do. " After supper there was a concert, while Chaise (the fat old chief) overflowed the " elber " chair, and alluded to me as " our beautiful donor," and lured me into singing "Mylecharaine," and leading the company when we closed with the Doxology. •But "it was not myself at all, Molly dear, 'twas my shadow on the wall," and in any case, man can't live by soup kitchens alone, or woman either. And knowing what a poor, weak, vain woman 1 am at the best, I ask myself sometimes would it not be a thousand times better if I yielded to my true nature instead of struggling to realise a bloodless ideal that is not me in the least, but only my picture in the heart of some one who thinks me so much better than I am. • Not that anybody ever sees what a hypocrite I can be, though I came near to letting the cat out of the bag as lately as last night. You must know that when I turned my back on London at the command of John Knox the decond, I brought all my beautiful dresses along with me, except such of them as were left at the theatre. Yet I daren't lay them out in the drawers, so I kept them under lock and key in my boxes. There they lurked like evil spirits in ambush, and as often as their perfume escaped into the room my eyes watered for another eight of them. But in spite of all temptation I reeisted, I conquered, I triumphed — uotil last night when Rosa talked of Juliet, what a glorious creature she was, and how there was nobody on the stage who could "look" her and "play" her too. • What do jjou think I did ? Shall I tell you? Yes, I will. I crept upßtairs to my quiet little room, tugged the box from its hiding-place under the bed, drew out my dresses, my lovely, lovely brocades, and put •Copyright,

them on. Then I spoke the potion speech, beginning in a whisper, but getting louder as I went on, and always looking at myself in the glass. I had blown out the candle, and there was no light in the room but the moon that was shining on my face, but I waß glowing, my very soul was afire, and when I came to the end I drew myself up and said, "I — I am Juliet, for lam a great actress." 'Oh! Oh! Oh! I could scream with laughter to think of what happened next. Suddenly I became aware of somebody knocking at my door (I had locked it) and of a thin voiceoutside, saying fretfully, "Glory, whatever is it? Aren't you well, Glory ? " It was the little Auntie, and thinking what a shocfe she would have if I opened the door and she came upon this grand Italian lady, instead of poor little me, I had to laugh and to make excuses, while I smuggled off my gorgeous things and got back into my plain ones. 'It was a narrow squeak, but I had a narrower one some days before. Poor grandfather ! He regards Rosa as belonging to a superior race, and loves to ask her what she thinks of Glory. He has grown quite simple lately, and as soon as he thinks my back is turned he is always saying, "And what is your opinion of my granddaughter, Miss Macquarrie ? " To which she answers, " Glory is going to' make yonr name immortal, Mr. Quayle." Then his eyes sparkle, and he says, "Do you think so ? Do you really think so ? " Whereupon she talks further balderdash and the dear old darling smiles a triumphant smile. ' But I always notice that not long afterwards his eyes look wet and his head hangs low, and he is saying to the Aunties, with a crack in his voice, " She'll go away again. You'll see she will. Her beauty and her talents belong to the world." And then I burst in on them and scold them and tell them not to talk nonsense. ' Nevertheless he is beginning to regard Rosa with suspicion, as if she were a witch, luring me away, and one evening last week we had to steal into the garden to talk that we might escape from his watchful eyes. The sun had set there was the red glow behind the castle across the sky and the sea, and we were walking on the low path by the river under the fuchsia hedge that hangs over from the lawn, you know. Eosa was talking with her impetuous dash of the groat career open to anyone who could win the world in London, how there were people enough to help her on, rich men to find her opportunities, and even take theatres for her if need be. And I was hesitating and halting and stammering, " Yes, yes, if it were the regular stage . . . who knows . . . perhaps it might not be open to the same objections . .• ." when suddenly the leaves of the fuchsia rustled as with a gust of wind, and we heard footsteps on the path above. ' It was the grandfather who had come out on Rachel's arm, and overheard what I had said. "It's Glory," he faltered, and then I heard him take his snuff and blow his nose as if to cover his confusion, thinking I was deceiving them and carrying on a secret intercourse. I hardly know what happened next, except that for the ten minutes following "the great actress " had to talk with the tongues of men and angels (Beelzebub's) in order to throw dust in the dear old eyes and drive away their doubts. It was a magnifioent performance, "you go bail," I'll never do the like of it again, though I only had one old man and one old maid and one young woman for audience. The house " rose " at me, too, and the poor old grandfather was appeased- But when we were back indoora I overheard him saying, " After all, there's no help for it. She's dull with us ; what wonder ! We can't cage our linnet, Eachel, and perhaps we shouldn't try. A song bird came to cheer us, but it will fly away. We are only old folks, dear ;• it's no use crying." And on going to his room that night he closed his door and said his prayers in a whisper that I might not hear him when he sobbed. 'He hasn't left his bed since. I fear he never will. More than once I have been on the point of telling him there is no reason to think the deluge would come if I did go back to London, but I will never leave him now. Yet I wish Aunt Rachel wouldn't talk so much of the days when I went away before. It seems that every night on his way to his own room he used to step into my empty one and come out with his eyes dim and his lips moving. lam not naturally hard-hearted, but I can't love grandfather like that. Oh, the cruelty of life ! I know it ought to be the other way about — but I can't help it. ' All the same I could cry to think how short life is, and how little of it I can spare. " Cling fast to me and hold me," my heart is always saying, but meantime London is calling to me, calling to me like the sea, and I feel as if I were a wandering mermaid and she were my ocean home. ' Later. 'Poor, poor grandfather! I was interrupted in the writing of my letter this morning by another of those sudden alarms. He had fainted again, and it is extraordinary how helplepj the aunties are in case of illness. Grandfather knows it too, and after I had done all I could

to bring him round, he opened his eyes and whispered that he had something to say to me alone. At that the poor old things left the room, with tears of woe and understanding. ' Then, fetching a difficult breath, he said, " You are not afraid, Glory, are you?" and I answered " No," though my heart was trembling. And then a feeble smile struggled through the wan features of his drawn face, and he told me his attack was only another summons. " I'll soon die for good," he said, "and you must be strong and brave, my child, for death is the common lot, and then what is there to fear ?" I didn't try to contradict him — what was the good of doing that ? — and after he had spoken of the coming time he talked quietly of his past life, how he had weathered the storm for seventy odd years and his Almighty Father was bringiner him into harbour at last. "I can't pray for life any longer, Glory Many a time I aid so in the old days when I had to bring up my little granddaughter, but my task is over now, and after the day is done where is the tired labourer who does not lie down to his rest with a will ?" 'The doctor has been and gone. There is no ailment, and nothing to be done or hoped. It is only a general failure, and a sinking earthwards of the poor worn-out body, as the soul rises to the heaven that is waiting to receive it. What a pagan I feel beside him ! And how glad I am that I didn't talk of leaving him again when he was on the eve of his far longer journey. I have sent the aunties to bed, but Eosa has made me promise to waken her at 4. that she may take her turn at his bedaide. 1 Next Morning. 'Eosa relieved me during the night, and I came to my room and lay down in the chilliness of the dawn. But now I am sorry that I allowed her to do so, for I did not sleep, and grandfather appears to have been troubled with dreams. I fancied he shuddered a little as I left them together, and more than once through the wall I heard him cry, " Bring him back," in the toneless voice of one who is labouring under the terrors of a nightmare. But each time I heard Eosa comforting him, so I lay down again without going in. 'Being stronger this morning, he has been propped up in bed writing a letter. When he called for pens and paper, I asked him if I couldn't write it for him, but the old darling made a great mystery of the matter, and looked artful and asked if it was usual to fight your enemy with his own powder and shot. Of course I humoured him, and pxetended to be mighty curious, though I think ' I know who the letter was written to, all the same he kept the addreßS side of the envelope hidden, even at the time the back of it was being sealed. He sealed it with sealing wax, and I held the candle while he did so, with his poor trembling fingers in danger from the light, and then I stamped it with my mother's pearl ring, and he smuggled it under the pillow. 4 Since breakfast he has shown an increased inclination to doze, but there have been visits from the wardens and from neighbouring parsons, for his locum tenens has had to be appointed. Of course they have all enquired where his pain is, and on being told that he has none they have gone downstairs cackling and clucking and crowing in various versions of " Praise God for that !' I hate people who are always singing the Doxology. 'Noon. ' Condition unchanged, except that in the intervals of drowsiness his mind has wandered a little. It appears to live in the past. Looking at me with conscious eyes, he calls me 'Lancelot,' my father's name. It has been so all the morning. One would think he was walking in a twilight land, where he mistakes people's faces, and the dead are as much alive as the living. • They all think I am brave, oh so brave, because I do not cry, as everybody else does, even Aunt Anna behind her apron, although my tears can flow so easily, and at other times I keep them constantly on tap. But I am really afraid, and down at the bottom of my heart I am terrified. It is just as if something were coming into the house slowly, irresistibly, awfully, and casting its shadow on the floor already. 'I have found out the cause of his outcries in the night. Aunt Eachel says he was dreaming of my father's departure for Africa. That was twenty-two years ago, but it seems that the memory of the last day has troubled him a good deal lately. " Don't you remember it," he has been saying ; " there were no railways in the island then, and we stood at the gate to watch the coach that was taking him away. He sat on the top, and waved his red handkerchief. And when he had gone, and it was no use watching, we turned back to the house — you and Anna and poor, pretty, young Elice with the baby. He never came back, and when Glory goes again, she'll never come back either." ' In the intervals of his eemi-con-sciousness, when he mistakes me for my father, my wonderful bravery often falls me, and I find excuses for going out of the room. Then I creep noiselessly through the house, and listen at kalf-open doers. Just now I heard him talking quite rationally to Eachel. but in a voice that seemed to speak inwardly, not

outwardly as before. " She can't help it, poor child," he said. " Some day she'll know what it is, but not yet — not until she has a child of her own. The race looks forward, not backward. God knew when he created us that the world couldn't go on without that bit of cruelty — and who am I that I should complain?" ' I couldn't bear it any longer, and with a pain at my heart I ran in and cried, " I'll never leave you, grandfather." But he only smiled and said, " I'll not be keeping you long, Glory; I'll not be keeping you long " ; and then I could have died of shame. ' Evening. ' All afternoon he has been like a child, and everything present to his consciousness seems to have been reversed. The shadow of eternity appears to have wiped out time. When I have raised him up in bed he has delighted to think he was a little boy in his young mother's arms. Oh sweet dream ! The old man with his furrowed forehead and beautiful white head and all the heavy years rolled back: ! More than once he has asked me if he may play till bedtime, and I have stroked his wrinkled hands and told him yes, for T pretend to be his mother, who died when she was old. ' But the " part " is almost too much for me, and lest I should break down under the strain of it I am going out of his room constantly. I have just been into his study. It is as full as ever of its squeezes and rubbings and plaster casts, and dusty old runes. He has spent all his life away back in the tenth century, and now he is going farther, farther. ' Oh, I'm aweary, aweary ! If anything happens to grandfather I shall soon leave this place. There will be nothing to hold me here any longer, and besides I could not bear the sight of these evidences of his gentle presence, so simple, so touching. But what a vain thing London is with all its vast ado, how little, how pitiful ! ' Later. l lt is all over. The scene has shut up, and lam not crying. If I did cry it would not be from grief, but because the end was so beautiful, so glorious. It was at sunset, and the streamers of the sun were coming horizontally into the room. He awoke from a long drowsiness, and a serenity almost angelic overspread his face. I could see that he was himßelf once again. Death had led him back through the long years since he was a child, and he knew he was an old man and I was a young woman. "Have the boats gone yet?" he asked, meaning the herring boats that go at sunset. I looked out, and told him that they were at the point of going. " Let me see them sail," he said ; so I slipped my arms about him, and raised him until he was sitting up and could see down the length of the harbour, and past the castle to the sea. The reflection of the sunlight was about his silvery old head, and over the damps and chills of death it made a radiance on his face that was like a light from heaven. There was hardly a breeze, and the boats were dropping down from their berths with their brown sails half set. " Ah,' he said, " it's the other way with me, Glory. I'm coming in — not going out. I've been beating to windward all my life, but I see the harbour on my lee bow at last, as plainly as ever I saw Peel ; and now I'm only waiting foT the top of the tide, and the Master of the Port to run up the flag." • Then his head fell gently back on my arm, and his lips changed colour; but his eyes did not close, and over his saintly face there passed a fleeting smile. Thus died a Christian gentleman — a simple, sunny, merry, happy, child-like creature— and of such are the kingdom of heaven. ' Glory.' Parson Qttayle's Letter. 'Dear John, — Before this letter reaches you, or perhaps along with it, you will receive the news that tells you what it is. I am " in," John. I can say no more than that. The doctor tells me it may be now, or then, or at any time, but I am looking for my enlargement soon, and whether it comes to-morrow sunset or with to-day's next tide, I leave myself in His hands, in Whose hands we all are. Well, as the wise man said, " The day of death is better than the day of our birth," so with all good will, and what legacy of strength old age has left to me, I send you my last word and message. ' My poor old daughters are sorely stricken, but Glory is still brave and true, being, as she always wasf a quivering bow of steel. People tell me that the poor mother is strong in the girl, and the spirit of the mother's race ; but well I know the father's stalwart soul supports her ; and I | pray God that when my dark hour comes her loving and courageous arm may be around me. ' That brings me to the object of my letter. This living will soon be vacant, and I am wondering who will follow in my feeble steps. It is a sweet spot, John. The old church does not look so ill when the sun shines on it, and in the summer time this old garden is full of fruit and flowers. Did I ever tell you that Glory was born here ? I never had another grandchild, and we were great comrades from the first. She was a wise and winsome little thing, and I was only an old child myself, so we had many a run and romp together. When I try to think of the place without her it is a vain effort,

and a painful one ; and even while she was away in your great and wicked Babylon, with its dangers and temptations, her little ghost seemed to lurk at the back of every bush and tree, and sometimes it would leap out at me and laugh. 'It is months since I saw your father, but they tell me he has lately burnt his bureau, making one vast bonfire of the gatherings of twenty -years. That is not such ill news either, and maybe now the great ado that worked such woe is put by and gone, he would rejoice to see you back at home, and open his hungering arms to you. ' But my eyes ache, and my pen is sinking. Farewell ! Farewell ! FareI well ! An old man leaves you his blessing, John. God grant that in \ His own good time we may meet in a blessed paradise, rejoicing in His gracious mercy, and all our sins forgiven. 'Adam Quayle.' I X. i Glory's letter and its enclosure fell on John Storm like rain in the face of a man on horseback — he only whipped up and went faster. ' How can I find words.' he wrote, 'to express what I feel at your mournful news? Yet why mournful ? His life's mission was fulfilled, his death was a peaceful victory, and we ought to rejoice that he was so easily released. I trust you will not mourn too heavily for him or allow his death to stop your life. It would not be right. No trouble came near his stainless heart — no shadow of sin ; his old age was a peaceful day which lasted until sunset ; he was a creature that had no falsetto in a single fibre of his being — no shadow of affectation. He kept like this through all our complicated existence in this artificial world, absolutely unconscious of the hollowness and pretentious and sham that surrounded him — tolerant too and kind to all. Then why moan for him? He is gathered in ; he ia safe. 'His letter was touching in its artful simplicity. It was intended to ask me to apply for his living. But my duty is here, and London must make the best of me. Yet more than now I feel my responsibility with regard to yourself. The time is not ripe to advise you. I am on the eve of a great effort. Many things have to be tried, many things attempted. It is a gathering of manna, a little every day. To God's keeping and protection, meanwhile, I commit you. Comfort your aunts, and let me know if there is anything that can be done for them.' The ink of this letter was scarcely dry when John Storm was in the middle of something else. He was in a continual fever now. Above all bis great scheme for the rescue and redemption of women and children possessed him. He called it Glory's scheme when he talked of it to himself. It might be in the teeth of nineteenth century morality, but what matter about that ? It was on the lines of Christ's teaching when He forgave the woman and shamed the hypocrites. He would borrow for ii, beg for it, and there might be conditions under which he would steal for it too. Mrs. Callender shook her head. 'I much misdoubt there'll be scandal, laddie. It's a woman's work, I'm thinking.' ' "Be thou as chaste as ice," aunty, "as pure as snow " . . . but no matter ! I intend to call out the full power of a united church into the warfare against this high wickedness. Talk of the union of Christendom ! If we are in earnest about it we'll unite to protect and liberate our women.' 'But where's the siller to come frae, laddie ?' ' Anywhere — everywhere ! Besides, I have a bank I can always draw on, aunty.' ' You're no meaning the Prime Minister again, surely ? ' ' I mean the king. God will provide for me, as in this, ao in everything.' Thus his reckless enthusiasm bore down everything, and back of all his thoughts was the thought of Glory. He was preparing a way for her ; she was coming back to a greaC career, a glorious mission. Her bright soul would shine like a star ; she would see that he had been right and faithful; and then — then . But it was like wine coursing through his veins — he could not think of it. Three thousand pounds had to be found to buy or build homes with, and he set out to beg for this money. His first call was at Mrs. Mackray's Going up to the house he meet the lady's poodle in a fawn-coloured wrap coming out in charge of a footman for its daily walk round the square. He gave the name of 'Father I Storm,' and after some minutes of waiting he was told that the lady had a headache and was not receiving that day. ' Say the nephew of the Prime Minister wishes to see her,' said John. Before the footman had returned again there was the gentle rustle of a dress on the stairs, and the lady herself was saying — ' Dear Mr. Storm, come ' up. My servants are real tiresome — they are always confusing names.' Before they were seated in the drawing-room Mrs. Mackray had plunged into an account of her anxieties as a mistress, what care she took in the selection of striotly evangelioal church people, yet how hard it

was to trust the certificates which she always required of a thorough change of heart, and how often she had been deceived. Time had told on her ; she was looking elderly, and the wrinkles about her eyes would no longer be smoothed out. But her ' front ' was curled and she was still saturated in eau de Cologne. ' I heard of your return, dear Mr. Storm,' she said in the languid voice of the great lady, but the accent of St. Louis. 'My daughter told me about it. She was always interested in your work, you know. Oh, yes, quite well, and having a real good time in Paris ! Of course you know she has been married. A great blow to me naturally, but being God's will, I felt it was my duty as a mother . . .' and then, a pathetic description of her maternal sentiments, consoled by the circumstance that her son-in-law belonged to ' one of the best families,' and that she was continually getting newspapers from 'the other side' containing full accounts of the wedding, and of the dresses that were worn at it. John twirled his hat in his hand and listened. ' And what are your dear devoted people doing down there in Soho ?' Then John told of his work for working girls, and the great lady pretended to be deeply interested. ' Why, they'll soon be" better than the upper classes,' she said. John thought it was not improbable, but he went on to tell of his scheme and how small was the sum required for its exeoution. ' Only three thousand ! That ought to be easily fixed up. Why, certainly .' 'Charity is the salt of riches, madam, and if rich people would remember that their wealth is a trust . . .' ' I do — I always do. " Lay not up for yourself treasures on earth " — what a beautiful text that is ?' 'I'm glad to hear you say so, madam.' said John. ' so many Christian people allow that God is the God of the widow and fatherless, while the gods they really worship are the gods of silver and gold.' ' But I love the dear children, and I like to go to the institution to see them in their nice white pinafores, making their curtseys. But what you say is real true, Mr. Storm, and since I came from St. Louis I've seen considerable people who are that silly about cats . . .' — and then a long story of the folly of a lady friend who had once had a pet Persian, and it died, and then she wore crape for it, and you could never mention a cat in her hearing afterwards. At that moment the poodle came back from his walk, and the lady called it to her, fondled it affectionately, said it was a present from her poor dear husband, and launched into an account of her anxieties respecting it, being delicate and liable to colds, notwithstanding the trousseau (it was a lady poodle) which the fashionable dog tailor in Regentstreet had provided for it. John got up to take his leave. ' May I then count on your kind support on behalf of our poor women and children of Soho ? ' ' Ah, of course, that matter. Well, you see,' as she gave him two fingers, ' the Archdeacon kindly comes to talk "city" with me — in fact, I'm expecting him to-day ; and I never do anything without asking his advice, never, in my present state of health. I have a weak heart, you know,' with her head aside and her saturated pocket-handkerchief at her nose. ' But has the Prime Minister done anything ? ' ' He has advanced me £2000.' ' Really ? ' rising and kicking her train. ' Well, as I say, we ought to fix it right away. Why not hold a meeting in my drawing-room — all denominations you say ? I don't mind — not in a cause like that,' and she glanced round her room as if thinkit was always possible to disinfect it afterwards. Somebody was coughing loudly in the hall as John stepped downstairs. It was the Archdeacon coming in. ' Ah,' he exclaimed with a flourish of the hand, greeting John as if they had parted yesterday and on the best of terms. Yes, there had been changes, and he was promoted to a sphere of higher usefulness. True, his good friends had Jooked for something still higher, but it was the premier Archdeaconry at all events, and in the Church, as in life generally, the spirit of compromise ruled everything. He asked what John was doing, and on being told he said with a somewhat more worldly air, 'Be careful, my dear Storm, don't encourage vice. For my part, lam tired of the fallen sister. To tell you the truth, I deny the name. The painted Jezebel of the Piccadilly pavement is no sister of mine.' 'We don't choose our relations, Archdeacon,' said John. 'If God is our father, then all men are our brothers and all women are our sisters, whether we like it or not.' 'Ah ! The same man still, I see. But we will not quarrel about words. Seen the dear First Lord lately ? Not very lately. Ah, well,' with a superior smile, ' the air of Downingstreet — it's so bad for the memory, - they say, 'and, coughing loudly again, he stepped upstairs. ■ John Storm went home that day light-handed, but with a heavy heart. ' Begging is an ill trade on a fast day, laddie,' eaid Mrs. Callender. ' Sit ye down, and tak' some dinner.' 'How dare these people pray

" Our Father which art in Heaven ?" It's blasphemy — it's deceit ?' ' Aye, and they would deceive God about their dividends if He pouldn't see into their safes.' 'Their money is the meanest thing heaven gives them. If I asked them for their health or happiness, Lord God, what would they say ?' On the Sunday night following John Storm preached to an overflowing congregation from the text — .' This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.' But a few weeks afterwards his face was bright and his voice cheery, and he was writing another letter to Glory:— 'In full swing at last, Glory. To carry out my new - idea I had to get £3000 more of my mother's money from my uncle. He gave it up cheerfully, only saying he was curious to see what approach to the Christian ideal the situation of civilisation permitted. But Mrs. Callender is " dour," and every time I spend sixpence of my own money on the church she utters withering sarcasms about being only a " daffc auld woman herself," and I have to caress and coax her. 'The newspapers were facetious about "Baby Houses" until they scented the Prime Minister at the back of them, and now they call them the "Storm Shelters," and christen my processions, "The White Cross Army." Even the Archdeacon has begun to tell the world how he " took an interest " in me from the iirst and gave me my title. I met him again the other day at a rich woman's house. Here we had only one little spar, and yesterday he wrote urging me to " organise my great effort," and have a public dinner in honour of its inauguration. I did not think God's work could be well done by people dining in herds and drinking bottles of champagne; but I showed no malice. In fact, I agreed to hold a meeting in a lady's drawing-room, to which clergymen, laymen, and members of all denominations are being invited, for this is a cause that rises above all differences of dogma, and I intend to try what can be done towards a union of Christendom on a social basis. Mrs. Callender is " dour " on that subject, too, reminding me that where the carcase is there will the eagles be gathered together. The Archdeacon thinks we must have the meeting before August 12th, or not until after the middle of September, and Mrs. Callender understands this to mean that the Holy Ghost always goes to sleep in the grouse season. ' Meantime, my girls' club goes like a forest fire. We are now in our renovated clergy house at last, and have everything comfortable. Two hundred members already, chiefly dressmakers and tailors and girls out of the jam and match factories. The bright, merry young things, rejoicing in their brief blossoming time between girlhood and womanhood — I love to be among them and to look at their glistening eyes ! Mrs. Callender blows withering blasts on this head also, saying it is no place for a "laddie," whereupon 1 lie low and think much, but say nothing. ' Our great night is Sunday night after service. Yes, indeed, Sunday ! That's just when the devil's houses are all open round about us, and why should God's house be shut up? It is all very well for the people who have only one Sabbath in the week to keep it wholly holy. I have seven, being a follower of Jesus, not of Moses. But the rector of the parish has begun to complain of my intrusion, to tell the bishop I ought to be " mended" or "ended" immediately. It seems that my " doings" "areindecent and unnecessary," and my sermons a "violation of all the sanctities, all the modesties of existence." Poor dumb dog, teaching the Gospel of Don't ! The world has never been reformed by "resignation" to the evils of life, or converted by " silence " either. ' How I wish you were here in the midst of it all! And who knows? Perhaps you will be some day yet. Do not trouble to answer this. I will write again soon. Au revo'lr i * (To be continued.)