ot far to look. A sort of grotesque romance
had gathered about him, as of a modern Don Quixote tilting at windmills.
His name was the point of a pun; there were cartoons, caricatures, and
all other forms of the joke that is not a joke because it is an insult.

Sometimes she took stolen glances at his work. On Sunday morning she
walked through Soho, past the people sitting on their doorsteps reading
the sporting intelligence in the Sunday papers, with their larks in cages
hung on nails, overhead, until she came to the church, and heard the
singing inside, and saw chalked up on the walls the legend, "God bless
the Farver!"

"Strange charge against a clergyman!" It was a low-class paper, and the
charge was a badge of honour. A young ruffian (it was Charles Wilkes) had
been brought up on remand on a charge of assaulting Father Storm, and
being sentenced to a week's imprisonment, notwithstanding the Father's
appeal and offer of bail, he had accused the clergyman of relations with
his sweetheart (it was Agatha Jones).

Glory's anger at the world's treatment of John Storm deepened to a great
love of the misunderstood and downtrodden man. She saw an announcement of
his last service, and determined to go to it. The church was crowded,
chiefly by the poor, and the air was heavy with the smell of oranges and
beer. It was a week-day evening, and when the choir came in, followed by
John Storm in his black cassock, Glory could not help a thrill of
physical joy at being near him.

The text was, "Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye
are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outside,
but are within full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness!" The first
half of the, sermon was a denunciation of the morality of men. We made
clean the outside of the platter, but the so-called purity of England was
a smug sham built upon rottenness and sin! There were men among us,
damned sensualists, left untouched by the idleness of the public
conscience, who did not even know where their children were to be found.
Let them go down into the gutters of life and look for their own faces,
and--God forgive them!--their mothers' faces, among the outcast and the
criminal. The second half was a defence of woman. The sins of the world
against women were the most crying wrongs of the time. Had they ever
reflected on the heroism of women, on their self-denying, unrewarded
labour? Oh, why was woman held so cheap as in thi