of hell.

"It must be," he answered her, "in God's good time."

"Life is terrible!" she said. "Think of what he must have done to
suffer so, to be condemned to this! And when I went to him, just now, he
wouldn't even kiss me good-by. Oh, my dear, if I hadn't had you to take
me, what should I have done?... It never was a home to me--to any of us.
And as I look back now, all the troubles began when we moved into it.
I can only think of it as a huge prison, all the more sinister for its
costliness."

A prison! It had once been his own conceit. He drew her gently away, and
they walked together along Park Street towards the distant arc-light at
the corner which flung a gleaming band along the wet pavement.

"Perhaps it was because I was too young to know what trouble was when we
lived in Ransome Street," she continued. "But I can remember now how
sad my mother was at times--it almost seemed as though she had a
premonition." Alison's voice caught....

The car which came roaring through the darkness, and which stopped
protestingly at their corner, was ablaze with electricity, almost filled
with passengers. A young man with a bundle changed his place in order
that they might sit together in one of the little benches bordering
the aisle; opposite them was a laughing, clay-soiled group of labourers
going home from work; in front, a young couple with a chubby child. He
stood between his parents, facing about, gazing in unembarrassed wonder
at the dark lady with the veil. Alison's smile seemed only to increase
the solemnity of his adoration, and presently he attempted to climb over
the barrier between them. Hodder caught him, and the mother turned in
alarm, recapturing him.

"You mustn't bother the lady, Jimmy," she said, when she had thanked
the rector. She had dimpled cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, but their
expression changed as they fell on Alison's face, expressing something
of the wonder of the child's.

"Oh, he isn't bothering me," Alison protested. "Do let him stand."

"He don't make up to everybody," explained the mother, and the manner of
her speech was such a frank tribute that Alison flushed. There had been,
too, in the look the quick sympathy for bereavement of the poor.

"Aren't they nice?" Alison leaned over and whispered to Hodder, when the
woman had turned back. "One thing, at least, I shall never regret,--that
I shall have to ride the rest of my life in the streetcars. I love them.
That is probably my o