ood?"

"Tell her"--John was striving to keep his voice firm--"tell her I am
happy--and cheerful--and looking strong and well, you know."

"But you're not. You're too good, and you're wearing away in my----"

"Tell her I am often thinking of her, and if she has anything to
say--anything to send--any word--any message... it can't be displeasing
to the Almighty.... But no matter! Go, go!"

The key had grated in the lock again, the lay brother was gone, and John
was left alone.

"God pity and forgive me!" he muttered, and then he turned away.

The traffic in the streets was increasing every moment, and as he
stumbled across the courtyard a drunken man going by the gate stopped and
cried into the passage, "Helloa, there! I'm a-watchin' of ye!" The
bloodhound leaped up and barked, but John hurried into the house and
clashed the door.

He sat on the form and tried to compose himself. He thought of Paul as he
had seen him at the last moment--the captured eagle with the broken wing
scudding into the night, the night of London, but free, free!

In his mind's eye he followed him through the streets--down Bishopsgate
Street into Threadneedle Street and along Cheapside to St. Paul's
churchyard. Crowds of people would be there to-night waiting for the
striking of the clock at midnight that they might raise a shout and wish
each other a happy New Year.

That made him think of Glory. She would be there too, for she loved a
rich and abounding life. He could see her quite plainly in the midst of
the throng with her sparkling eyes and bounding step. It would be so new
to her, so human and so beautiful! Glory! Always Glory!

He thought he must have been dreaming, for suddenly the clocks were all
striking, first the clock in the hall, then the clocks of the churches
round about, and finally the great clock of the cathedral. Almost at the
same moment there was a distant sound like the rattle of musketry, and
then the church bells began to ring.

The noises in the street were now tumultuous. People were shouting and
laughing. Some of them were singing. At one moment it was the Salvation
chorus, at the next a music-hall ditty. First "At the Cross, at the
Cross," then "Mr. 'enry 'awkins," and then an unfamiliar ditty. With
measured steps over the hardened snow of the pavement there came tramping
along a line of boys and girls, crying:

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?
D'ye ken John Peel at the break of day?
D'ye ken