-reigned gloriously in heaven and on earth.

When more than an hour had passed, Snowdon came and sat down beside the
girl. Without speaking she showed him what she had written. He nodded
approvingly.

'Shall I say it to you, grandfather?'

'Yes.'

Jane collected her thoughts, then began to repeat the parable of the
Samaritan. From the first words it was evident that she frequently thus
delivered passages committed to memory; evident, too, that instruction
and a natural good sense guarded her against the gabbling method of
recitation. When she had finished Snowdon spoke with her for awhile on
the subject of the story. In all he said there was the earnestness of
deep personal feeling. His theme was the virtue of Compassion; he
appeared to rate it above all other forms of moral goodness, to regard
it as the saving principle of human life.

'If only we had pity on one another, all the worst things we suffer
from in this world would be at an end. It's because men's hearts are
hard that life is so full of misery. If we could only learn to be kind
and gentle and forgiving--never mind anything else. We act as if we
were all each other's enemies; we can't be merciful, because we expect
no mercy; we struggle to get as much as we can for ourselves and care
nothing for others. Think about it; never let it go out of your mind.
Perhaps some day it'll help you in your own life.'

Then there was silence again. Snowdon went back to his scat by the
window and relit his pipe; to muse in the sunshine seemed sufficient
occupation for him. Jane opened another book and read to herself.

In the afternoon they went out together. The old man had grown more
talkative. He passed cheerfully from subject to subject, now telling a
story of his experiences abroad, now reviving recollections of London
as he had known it sixty years ago. Jane listened with quiet interest.
She did not say much herself, and when she did speak it was with a
noticeable effort to overcome her habit of diffidence. She was happy,
but her nature had yet to develop itself under these strangely novel
conditions.

A little before sunset there came a knocking at the house-door. Jane
went down to open, and found that the visitor was Sidney Kirkwood. The
joyful look with which she recognised him changed almost in the same
moment; his face wore an expression that alarmed her; it was stern,
hard-set in trouble, and his smile could not disguise the truth.
Without speaking, he