r your
voice."

The organ was playing a "coon song," and she sang the words of it. They
were simple words, childish words, almost babyish, but full of tenderness
and love. The little black boy could think of nothing but his Loo-loo. In
the night when he was sleeping he awoke and he was weeping, for he was
always, always dreaming of his Loo-loo, his Loo-loo!

When the song was finished they took hands and talked in whispers, though
they were alone in the room now, and nobody could hear them. His white
face was very bright, and her moist eyes were full of merriment. They
grew foolish in their tenderness and played with each other like little
children. There were recollections of their early life in the little
island home, memories of years concentrated into an hour--humorous
stories and touches of mimicry. "'O Lord, open thou our lips----Where are
you, Neilus?' 'Aw, here I am, your riverence, and my tongue shall shew
forth thy praise.'"

All at once John's face saddened and he said, "It's a pity, though!"

"A pity!"

"I suppose the man who carries the flag always gets 'potted,'as they say.
But somebody must carry it."

Glory felt her tears gathering.

"It's a pity that I have to go before you, Glory."

She shook her head to keep the tears from flowing, and then answered
gaily: "Oh, that's only as it should be. I want a little while to think
it all out, you know, and then--then I'll pass over to you, just as we
fall asleep at night and pass from day to day."

* * * * *

And then he lay back with a sigh and said, "Well, I have had a happy end,
at all events."

XVI.

The day had been fine, with a rather fierce sun shining until late in the
afternoon, and long white clouds lying motionless in a deep blue sky,
like celestial sand-banks in a celestial sea. But the tender and tempered
splendour of the evening had come at length, with the sun gone over the
housetops to the northwest, and its solemn afterglow spreading round,
like the wings of angels sweeping down. London was unusually quiet after
the roar and turmoil of the day. The great city lay like a tired ocean.
And like an ocean it seemed to sleep, full of its living as well as its
dead.

In a little square which stands on the fringe of the slums of
Westminster, and has a well-worn church in the middle, and tenement
houses, institutions, and workshops around its sides, a strange crowd had
gathered. It consisted for the