tions' is the proud
appeal of prelate, prig, and philanthropist, because some hundreds of
Christians who knew their danger, yet chose to take up their abode in a
fanatical Muslim city of the East, have suffered death."

The meeting had been called in answer to an appeal from Exeter Hall.
Lord Eglington had been asked to speak, and these were among his closing
words.

He had seen, as he thought, an opportunity for sensation. Politicians of
both sides, the press on all hands, were thundering denunciations upon
the city of Damascus, sitting insolent and satiated in its exquisite
bloom of pear and nectarine, and the deed itself was fading into that
blank past of Eastern life where there "are no birds in last year's
nest." If he voyaged with the crowd, his pennant would be lost in the
clustering sails! So he would move against the tide, and would startle,
even if he did not convince.

"Let us not translate an inflamed religious emotion into a war," he
continued. "To what good? Would it restore one single life in Damascus?
Would it bind one broken heart? Would it give light to one darkened
home? Let us have care lest we be called a nation of hypocrites. I will
neither support nor oppose the resolution presented; I will content
myself with pointing the way to a greater national self-respect."

Mechanically, a few people who had scarcely apprehended the full force
of his remarks began to applaud; but there came cries of "'Sh! 'Sh!" and
the clapping of hands suddenly stopped. For a moment there was absolute
silence, in which the chairman adjusted his glasses and fumbled with the
agenda paper in his confusion, scarcely knowing what to do. The speaker
had been expected to second the resolution, and had not done so. There
was an awkward silence. Then, in a loud whisper, some one said:

"David, David, do thee speak."

It was the voice of Faith Claridge. Perturbed and anxious, she had come
to the meeting with her father. They had not slept for nights, for the
last news they had had of Benn Claridge was from the city of Damascus,
and they were full of painful apprehensions.

It was the eve of the first day of winter, and David's banishment was
over. Faith had seen David often at a distance--how often had she stood
in her window and looked up over the apricot-wall to the chair-maker's
hut on the hill! According to his penalty David had never come to
Hamley village, but had lived alone, speaking to no one, avoided by all,
workin