n or a
mock sign, God see him through with it!'

Conyers Smythe started home by the next mail boat save one. The
same boat carried a letter in the Bishop's handwriting to a
pastoral divine in Oxford.

'He's a sick sheep, anyhow,' said the writer, 'and I've a
presentiment that he mayn't last out a year.'

As it befell, Conyers Smythe died rather suddenly in England
before November was over. People remarked on the dreadfulness of
the event. But Mrs. Smythe bore the shock bravely, as if she had
been well prepared to bear it. It seemed that she had known the
truth about his heart-disease in May, almost as soon as he was
told it by the London doctor. Smythe had grown to be intimate in
those last months with two or three English scholars one was an
expert in tribal cults, and the other was that pastoral divine.
It was one or other of these Oxford friends of his who sent on
his last letter to the Bishop in December after he had gone away.
Among other messages, the letter brought this one:

'There was something in that Saint Mark's Eve business I suppose.
But I had had my warnings before of an event that is likely
enough to occur this very week. I am glad indeed that I came home
and saw things from other sides before the end. Perhaps those
crowded-out Kaffirs by your leper windows hurried me up with
their intelligence. I am grateful to them for that. Otherwise I
might have delayed, and never started on the home voyage.

'You must make some allowance for my old point of view, as I was
born into it. But now I want to give both Transepts to the Glory
of God on condition that colored folk and natives shall, have
them to themselves undisturbed. Forgive my narrow-mindedness, but
I'd rather have it so than have all races mixed up together, and
perhaps they'd rather have it so themselves! No, I really don't
think I'm dying in the creed of the tribal god Xanthos, but in
the faith of Someone bigger. I can trust you to befriend me at
some altar of His. . . . I wish I could afford the Tower.'

'Alms!' said the Bishop. 'Thank God they'll not be built now by
bazaars or fancy fairs or even by cafes-chantants. Poor base-born
little churches out here, that one so often hears of, aren't they
only too likely to grow up into the temples of the tribal god?'

Thus the Transepts were destined to be of purer lineage than
Chancel or Nave or Lady-chapel. Only the Leper Windows are their
equals in descent as yet among their fellow-buildings. Bu