senger. He was not,
as yet, to be driven out from the task, to be deprived of the talent,
the opportunity intrusted to him by Lord--the emancipation of the parish
of St. John's.

The first to greet him, when he entered his office, was one who, unknown
to himself, had been fighting the battle of the God in Christ, and who
now, thanks to John Hodder, had identified the Spirit as the transforming
force. Bedloe Hubbell had come to offer his services to the Church. The
tender was unqualified.

"I should even be willing, Mr. Hodder," he said with a smile, "to venture
occasionally into a pulpit. You have not only changed my conception of
religion, but you have made it for me something which I can now speak
about naturally."

Hodder was struck by the suggestion.

"Ah, we shall need the laymen in the pulpits, Mr. Hubbell," he said
quickly. "A great spiritual movement must be primarily a lay movement.
And I promise you you shall not lack for opportunity."

III

At nine o'clock that evening, when a reprieve came, Hodder went out.
Anxiety on the score of Kate Marcy, as well as a desire to see Mr.
Bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his
steps toward Dalton Street. And Hodder had, indeed, an intention of
confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of
his engagement to Alison Parr.

Nothing, however, had been heard of Kate. She was not in Dalton Street,
Mr. Bentley feared. The search of Gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been
fruitless. And Sally Grover had even gone to see the woman in the
hospital, whom Kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible
clew. They sat close together before the fire in Mr. Bentley's
comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of
procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt
without. As it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them. The
door-bell rang.

Holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the
muffled sound of a woman's voice in the entry. A few moments later came
a knock at the library door, and Sam entered. The old darky was plainly
frightened.

"It's Miss Kate, Marse Ho'ace, who you bin tryin' to fin'," he stammered.

Holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table,
where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway. There she was,
perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an
earthquake. Her handsom