d from himself at the same time, that he might dedicate his
life to God. It was right and true, no doubt; but wherefore could not I
pronounce Amen? He also mentioned something about myself, how much I had
been to him; for he had never known his mother, and had never had a
sister, and could never have a wife. All which was excellent, but a mere
woman like Glory doesn't want to read that sort of thing in a letter, and
would rather have five minutes of John Storm the man than a whole
eternity of John Storm the saint. His letter made me think of Christian
on his way to the eternal city; but that person has always seemed to me a
doubtful sort of hero anyway, taking Mrs. Christian into account and the
various little Christians, and I can't pity him a pin about his bundle,
for he might just as well have left behind him what he couldn't enjoy of
God's providence himself.

"But this is like hitting a cripple with his crutch, John being gone and
past all defending himself, and when I think of it in the streets I have
to run to keep myself from doing something silly, and then people think
I'm chasing an omnibus, when I'm really only chasing my tears. I can't
tell you much about the Brotherhood. It looks like a cross between a
palace and a penitentiary, and it appears that ritualism has gone one
better than High-Churchmanship, and is trying to introduce the monastic
system, which, to an ordinary woman of the world, seems well enough for
the man in the moon, though the man in the moon might have a different
way of looking at things. They say the brothers are all celibates and
live in cells, but I think I've seen a look in John Storm's eyes that
warns me that he wasn't intended for 'the lek o' that' exactly. To tell
you the truth, I half blame myself for what has happened, and I am
ashamed when I remember how jauntily I took matters all the time our poor
John was fighting with beasts at Ephesus. But I am vexed with him too;
and if only he had waited patiently before taking such a serious step in
order to hear _my_ arguments---- But no matter. A jackdaw isn't to be
called a religious bird because it keeps a-cawing on the steeple, and
John Storm won't make himself into a monk by shutting himself up in a
cell. Good-night."

IV.

The house to which Glory had fled out of the fog was a little dingy
tobacconist's shop opening on a narrow alley that runs from Holborn into
Lincoln's-Inn Fields. It was kept by the baby farmer whom she