to
talk 'City' with me--in fact, I'm expecting him to-day--and I never do
anything without asking his advice, never, in my present state of
health--I have a weak heart, you know," with her head aside and her
saturated pocket-handkerchief at her nose. "But has the Prime Minister
done anything?"

"He has advanced me two thousand pounds."

"Really?" rising and kicking back her train. "Well, as I say, we ought to
fix it right away. Why not hold a meeting in my drawing-room? All
denominations, you say? I don't mind--not in a cause like that," and she
glanced round her room as if thinking it was always possible to disinfect
it afterward.

Somebody was coughing loudly in the hall as John stepped downstairs. It
was the Archdeacon coming in. "Ah," he exclaimed, with a flourish of the
hand, greeting John as if they had parted yesterday and on the best of
terms. Yes, there _had_ been changes, and he was promoted to a sphere of
higher usefulness. True, his good friends had looked for something still
higher, but it was the premier archdeaconry at all events, and in the
Church, as in life generally, the spirit of compromise ruled everything.
He asked what John was doing, and on being told he said, with a somewhat
more worldly air, "Be careful, my dear Storm, don't encourage vice. For
my part, I am tired of the 'fallen sister.' To tell you the truth, I deny
the name. The painted Jezebel of the Piccadilly pavement is no sister of
mine."

"We don't choose our relations, Archdeacon," said John. "If God is our
Father, then all men are our brothers, and all women are our sisters
whether we like it or not."

"Ah! The same man still, I see. But we will not quarrel about words. Seen
the dear Prime Minister lately? Not _very_ lately? Ah, well"--with a
superior smile--"the air of Downing Street--it's so bad for the memory,
they say," and coughing loudly again, he stepped upstairs.

John Storm went home that day light-handed but with a heavy heart.

"Begging is an ill trade on a fast day, laddie," said Mrs. Callender.
"Sit you down and tak' some dinner."

"How dare these people pray, 'Our Father which art in heaven?' It's
blasphemy! It's deceit!"

"Aye, and they would deceive God about their dividends if he couldn't see
into their safes."

"Their money is the meanest thing Heaven gives them. If I asked them for
their health or their happiness, Lord God, what would they say?"

On the Sunday night following John Storm preached to an