f John she
felt no remorse. A sea of bewildering difficulty lay somewhere ahead, but
she would not look at it. He loved her, she loved him, and nothing else
mattered. If rules and vows stood between them, so much the worse for
such enemies of love.

She was conscious that a subtle change had come over her. She was not
herself any longer, but somebody else as well; not a woman merely, but in
some sort a man; not Glory only, but also John Storm. Oh, delicious
mystery! Oh, joy of joys! His arms seemed to be about her waist still,
and his breath to linger about her neck. With a certain tremor, a certain
thrill, she reached for a hand-glass and looked at herself to learn if
there was any difference in her face that the rest of the world would
see. Yes, her eyes had another lustre, a deeper light, but she lay back
in the cool bed with a smile and a long-drawn sigh. What matter whatever
happened! Gone were the six cruel months in which she had awakened every
morning with a pain at her breast. She was happy, happy, happy!

The morning sun was streaming across the room when Liza came in with the
tea.

"Did ye see the Farver last night, Miss Gloria?"

"Oh, yes; that was all right, Liza."

The day's newspaper was lying folded on the tray. She took it up and
opened it, remembering the Derby, and thinking for the first time of
Drake's triumph. But what caught her eye in glaring head-lines was a
different matter: "The Panic Terror--Collapse of the Farce."

It was a shriek of triumphant derision. The fateful day had come and
gone, yet London stood where it did before. Last night's tide had flowed
and ebbed, and the dwellings of men were not submerged. No earthquake had
swallowed up St. Paul's; no mighty bonfire of the greatest city of the
world had lit up the sky of Europe, and even the thunderstorm which had
broken over London had only laid the dust and left the air more clear.

"London is to be congratulated on the collapse of this panic, which, so
far as we can hear, has been attended by only one casualty--an assault in
Brown's Square, Westminster, on a young soldier, Charles Wilkes, of the
Wellington Barracks, by two of the frantic army of the terror-stricken.
The injured man was removed to St. Thomas's Hospital, while his
assailants were taken to Rochester Row police station, and we have only
to regret that the clerical panic-maker himself has not yet shared the
fate of his followers. Late last night the authorities, recov