dome and pinnacles. It was a very beautiful thing and
must have cost many hours of patient labour.

'Yes,' said the old woman, in a trembling, broken voice, and looking at
Owen with a pathetic expression. 'Months and months he worked at it,
and no one ever guessed who it were for. And then, when my birthday
came round, the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning
were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card:

'To dear mother, from her loving son, Tom.
Wishing her many happy birthdays.'

'But he never had another birthday himself, because just five months
afterwards he were sent out to Africa, and he'd only been there five
weeks when he died. Five years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.'

Owen, inwardly regretting that he had unintentionally broached so
painful a subject, tried to think of some suitable reply, but had to
content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of the work.

As he wished her good night, the old woman, looking at him, could not
help observing that he appeared very frail and ill: his face was very
thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindness and mercy was
chastening this unhappy castaway in order that He might bring him to
Himself. After all, he was not altogether bad: it was certainly very
thoughtful of him to come all this way to let John know about that job.
She observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was still raging
fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the house
and shaking it to its very foundations.

The natural kindliness of her character asserted itself; her better
feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the bigotry of her
religious opinions.

'Why, you ain't got no overcoat!' she exclaimed. 'You'll be soaked
goin' 'ome in this rain.' Then, turning to her husband, she continued:
'There's that old one of yours; you might lend him that; it would be
better than nothing.'

But Owen would not hear of this: he thought, as he became very
conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he could
not get much wetter than he already was. Linden accompanied him as far
as the front door, and Owen once more set out on his way homeward
through the storm that howled around like a wild beast hungry for its
prey.

Chapter 6

It is not My Crime

Owen and his family occupied the top floor of a house that ha