assure him that something human sat
in the large chair at the further end. But no sound answered his
appeal.

"I am but now arrived from Canterbury."

Still no answer came. John Banks went on, in a soft, hushed voice--not
in his own words. If the heart of stone could be touched, God's words
might do it; if not, still they were the best.

"`She shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the
sun light upon her, neither any heat. For the Lamb that is in the midst
of the Seat hath fed her, and hath led her unto fountains of living
water; and God hath wiped away all tears from her eyes.'"

He paused a moment, but the dead silence was unbroken.

One word more. "The Lord have mercy on thy soul, thou miserable
sinner!" Then Banks shut the door softly and went away.

There we leave Edward Benden, with the black silence of oblivion over
his future life. Whether the Holy Spirit of God ever took the stony
heart out of him, and gave him a heart of flesh, God alone knows. For
this, in its main features, is a true story, and there is no word to
tell us what became of the husband and betrayer of Alice Benden.

John Banks went on to the last house he had to visit--the little house
by the Second Acre Close. Roger Hall opened the door himself. Banks
stepped in, and as the light of the hall lantern fell upon his face,
Roger uttered an exclamation of pain and fear.

"Jack! Thy face--"

"Hath my face spoken to you, Master Hall, afore my tongue could frame so
to do? Perchance it is best so. Hold your hand."

Roger obeyed mechanically, and Banks laid on the hand held forth the
long white lace.

"For you," he said, his voice broken by emotion. John Banks' nerves
were pretty well worn out by that day's work, as well they might be.
"She gave it me for you--at the last. She bade me say it was the last
bond she was bound with--except _that_ chain."

"Thank God!" were the first words that broke from the brother who loved
Alice so dearly. The Christian spoke them; but the next moment the man
came uppermost, and an exceeding bitter cry of "O Alice, Alice!"
followed the thanksgiving of faith.

"It is over," said Banks, in a husky voice. "She `shall never see evil
any more.'"

But he knew well that he could give no comfort to that stricken heart.
Quietly, and quickly, he laid down the new shilling, with its message
for the poor old father; and then without another word--not even saying
"good-night," h