ok. This is its atmosphere.
They are truly set out. They are not white-washed; still less are they
pictured as men might have seen them in more sober moments, as the
Puritan world would see them now. Nor does the book set forth the
author's judgment, for that is not his idea of a novel. It sets out
what Peter and Julie saw and did, and what it appeared to them to be
while they did it. Very probably, then, the average reader had better
read no further than this....

But at any rate let him not read further than is written. The last page
has been left blank. It has been left blank for a reason, because the
curtain falls not on the conclusion of the lives of those who have
stepped upon the boards, but at a psychological moment in their story.
The Lord has turned to look upon Peter, and Julie has seen that He has
looked. It is enough; they were happy who, going down into the Valley of
the Shadow of Death, saw a vision of God's love even there. For the
Christ of Calvary moved to His Cross again but a few short years ago; and
it is enough in one book to tell how Simon failed to follow, but how
Jesus turned to look on Peter.

R.K.

PART I

Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must--
Designer infinite!--
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

CHAPTER I

London lay as if washed with water-colour that Sunday morning, light blue
sky and pale dancing sunlight wooing the begrimed stones of Westminster
like a young girl with an old lover. The empty streets, clean-swept, were
bathed in the light, and appeared to be transformed from the streets of
week-day life. Yet the half of Londoners lay late abed, perhaps because
six mornings a week of reality made them care little for one of magic.

Peter, nevertheless, saw little of this beauty. He walked swiftly as
always, and he looked about him, but he noticed none of these things.
True, a fluttering sheet of newspaper headlines impaled on the railings
of St. Margaret's held him for a second, but that was because its message
was the one that rang continually in his head, and had nothing at all to
do with the beauty of things that he passed by.

He was a perfectly dressed young man, in a frock coat and silk hat of the
London clergyman, and he was on his way to preach at St. John's at the
morning service. Walking always helped him to p