oured his father's living with harlots!"

The Canon's voice rose and fell, and rose again; thrilling, as his breast
heaved with the immense pathos and burden of the world.

Anne had a vision of the Hannays and the Ransomes, and of the prodigal
cast out from the house that loved him. And she said to herself for the
first time: "Have I done right? Have I done what Christ would have me
do?" The light that went up in her was a light by which her deeds looked
doubtful. If she had failed in this, in charity? She pondered the
problem, while the Canon approached, gloriously, his peroration.

"Therefore we pray for charity"--the Canon's voice rang tears--"for
charity, oh, dear and tender Lord, lest, having known Thy love, we fall,
ourselves, into the sins of unpity and of pride."

Tears came into Anne's eyes. She was overcome, bowed, shaken by the
Canon's incomparable pleading. The Canon was shaken by it himself, his
voice trembled in the benediction that followed. No one had a clearer
vision of the spiritual city. It was his tragedy that he saw it, and
could not enter in. Many, remembering that sermon, counted it, long
afterwards, to him for righteousness. It had conquered Anne. The tongues
of men and of angels, of all spiritual powers, human and divine, spoke to
her in that vibrating, indomitable voice.

The problem it had raised remained with her, oppressed, tormented her.
What she had done had seemed to her so good. But if, after all, she had
done wrong? If she had failed in charity?

She had come to a turning in her way when she could no longer see for
herself, or walk alone. She was prepared to surrender, meekly, her own
judgment. She must ask help of the priest whose voice told her that he
had suffered, and whose eyes told her that he knew.

She sent a note to All Souls Vicarage, requesting an interview, at Canon
Wharton's house rather than her own. She did not want Edith or the
servants to know that she had been closeted with the Canon. The answer
came that night, making an appointment after early Evensong on the
morrow.

After early Evensong, Anne found herself in the Canon's library. He did
not keep her waiting, and, as he entered, he held out to her, literally,
the hand of help. For the Canon never wasted a gesture. There was no
detail of social observance to which he could not give some spiritual
significance. This was partly the secret of his power. His face had lost
the light that illuminated it in the pulp