es, dear, and of course that can happen too," agreed the little old
lady.

"Did he, Carlyle, ever come to this church?" asked Joan.

Mary Stopperton was afraid he never had, in spite of its being so near.
"And yet he was a dear good Christian--in his way," Mary Stopperton felt
sure.

"How do you mean 'in his way'?" demanded Joan. It certainly, if Froude
was to be trusted, could not have been the orthodox way.

"Well, you see, dear," explained the little old lady, "he gave up things.
He could have ridden in his carriage"--she was quoting, it seemed, the
words of the Carlyles' old servant--"if he'd written the sort of lies
that people pay for being told, instead of throwing the truth at their
head."

"But even that would not make him a Christian," argued Joan.

"It is part of it, dear, isn't it?" insisted Mary Stopperton. "To suffer
for one's faith. I think Jesus must have liked him for that."

They had commenced with the narrow strip of burial ground lying between
the south side of the church and Cheyne Walk. And there the little pew-
opener had showed her the grave of Anna, afterwards Mrs. Spragg. "Who
long declining wedlock and aspiring above her sex fought under her
brother with arms and manly attire in a flagship against the French." As
also of Mary Astell, her contemporary, who had written a spirited "Essay
in Defence of the Fair Sex." So there had been a Suffrage Movement as
far back as in the days of Pope and Swift.

Returning to the interior, Joan had duly admired the Cheyne monument, but
had been unable to disguise her amusement before the tomb of Mrs.
Colvile, whom the sculptor had represented as a somewhat impatient lady,
refusing to await the day of resurrection, but pushing through her coffin
and starting for Heaven in her grave-clothes. Pausing in front of the
Dacre monument, Joan wondered if the actor of that name, who had
committed suicide in Australia, and whose London address she remembered
had been Dacre House just round the corner, was descended from the
family; thinking that, if so, it would give an up-to-date touch to the
article. She had fully decided now to write it. But Mary Stopperton
could not inform her. They had ended up in the chapel of Sir Thomas
More. He, too, had "given up things," including his head. Though Mary
Stopperton, siding with Father Morris, was convinced he had now got it
back, and that with the remainder of his bones it rested in the tomb
before them.