a standstill once more.

Stenson laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder. "Come," he went on,
"I know what is the matter with you, my friend. Your heart is too big.
The cry of the widow and the children lingers too long in your ears.
Remember some of your earlier sermons at the beginning of the war.
Remember how wonderfully you spoke one morning at St. Paul's upon the
spirituality to be developed by suffering, by sacrifice. `The hand which
chastises also purifies.' Wasn't that what you said? You probably didn't
know that I was one of your listeners, even--I myself, in those days,
scarcely looked upon the war as I do now. I remember crawling in at the
side door of the Cathedral and sitting unrecognised on a hard chair. It
was a great congregation, and I was far away in the background, but I
heard. I remember the rustle, too, the little moaning, indrawn breath of
emotion when the people rose to their feet. Take heart, Bishop. I
will remind you once more of your own words `These are the days of
purification.'"

The two men separated. The Bishop walked thoughtfully towards the
Strand, his hands clasped behind his back, the echo of those quoted
words of his still in his ear. As he came to the busy crossing, he
raised his head and looked around him.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "my eyes have been closed. Perhaps there are
things to be seen."

He called a taxicab and, giving the man some muttered directions, was
driven slowly down the Strand, looking eagerly first on one side of the
way and then on the other. It was approaching the luncheon hour and
the streets were thronged. Here seemed to be the meeting place of the
Colonial troops,--long, sinewy men, many of them, with bronzed faces
and awkward gait. They elbowed their way along, side by side with the
queerest collection of people in the world. They stopped and talked
in little knots, they entered and left the public houses, stood about
outside the restaurants. Here and there they walked arm in arm with
women. Taxicabs were turning in at the Savoy, taxicabs and private cars.
Young ladies of the stage, sometimes alone, very often escorted, were
everywhere in evidence. The life of London was flowing on in very much
the same channels. There were few, if any signs of that thing for which
he sought. The taxicab turned westwards, crossed Piccadilly Circus and
proceeded along Piccadilly, its solitary occupant still gazing into the
faces of the people with that same consuming