right and the immediate heir
to an earldom."

The moment was a bitter and terrible one. Memories of past years swept
over him--half-forgotten incidents of his boyhood when his father was his
only friend and he walked with his hand in his--memories of his father's
love for him, his hopes, his aims, his ambitions, and all the vast ado of
his poor delusive dreams. And then came thoughts of the broken old man
dying alone, and of himself in his prison cell. It had been a strangely
familiar thought to him of late that if he left London at seven in the
morning he could speak to his father at seven the same night. And now his
father was gone, the last opportunity was lost, and he could speak to him
no more.

But he tried to conquer the call of blood which he had put aside so long,
and to set over against it the claims of his exalted mission and the
spirit of the teaching of Christ. What had Christ said? "Call no man your
father upon the earth; for one is your Father which is in heaven!"

"Yes," he thought, "that's it--'for one is your Father which is in
heaven.'"

Then he took up the newspaper again, thinking to read with a calmer mind
the report of his father's death and burial, but his eye fell on a
different matter.

"ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.--Hardly has the public mind recovered
from the perplexity attending the disappearance of a well-known clergyman
from Westminster, when the news comes of a no less mysterious
disappearance of a popular actress from a West-End theatre."

It was Glory!

"Although a recent acquisition to the stage and the latest English
actress to come into her heritage of fame, she was already a universal
favourite, and her sudden and unaccountable disappearance is a shock as
well as a surprise. To the disappointment of the public she had not
played her part for nearly a week, having excused herself on the ground
of indisposition, but there was apparently nothing in the state of her
health to give cause for anxiety or to prepare her friends for the step
she has taken. What has become of her appears to be entirely beyond
conjecture, but her colleagues and associates are still hoping for the
hest, though the tone of a letter left behind gives only too much reason
to fear a sad and perhaps fatal sequel."

When the officer entered the cell again an hour after his first visit,
John Storm was pallid and thin and gray. The sublime faith he had built
up for himself had fallen to ruins, a cloud h