hope there's nothing to come after. If I were
God, I should be ashamed of such a mess of a world.'

'Well, no doubt you would have made something more to your mind--and
better, too, if all you see were all there is to be seen. But I didn't
send that bore away to bore you myself. I'm going to see Katey.'

'Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't interfere with what
you think proper to say to her.'

'That's rather like faith somewhere!' thought Falconer. 'Could that man
fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw him--anything like as he
is?'

Katey lay in a room overhead; for though he lacked food, this man
contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter, whom he treated
with far more respect than many gentlemen treat their wives. Falconer
found her lying on a wretched bed. Still it was a bed; and many in the
same house had no bed to lie on. He had just come from a room overhead
where lived a widow with four children. All of them lay on a floor
whence issued at night, by many holes, awful rats. The children could
not sleep for horror. They did not mind the little ones, they said, but
when the big ones came, they were awake all night.

'Well, Katey, how are you?'

'No better, thank God.'

She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face was worn and thin, but
hardly death-like. Only extremes met in it--the hopelessness had turned
through quietude into comfort. Her hopelessness affected him more than
her father's. But there was nothing he could do for her.

There came a tap at the door.

'Come in,' said Falconer, involuntarily.

A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket on
her arm. She started, and hesitated for a moment when she saw him. He
rose, thinking it better to go. She advanced to the bedside. He turned
at the door, and said,

'I won't say good-bye yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a chat with your
father, and if you will let me, I will look in again.'

As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At the sound
of his voice she started again, left the bedside and came towards him.
Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first, he could not tell.

'Robert,' she said, holding out her hand.

It was Mary St. John. Their hands met, joined fast, and lingered, as
they gazed each in the other's face. It was nearly fourteen years since
they had parted. The freshness of youth was gone from her cheek, and the
signs of middle age were present on he