d see far down the empty street.

She found the place at last. It was one of London's weather-beaten old
churches, shouldered by shops on either hand, and almost pushed back by
the tide of traffic. There was an iron gate at the side, leading by an
arched passage to a little courtyard, which was bounded by two high blank
walls, by the back wall of the church, and by the front of a large house
with a small doorway and many small windows. In the middle of the
courtyard there was a tree with a wooden seat round its trunk.

And being there, she felt afraid and almost wished she had not come. The
church was dimly lighted, and she thought perhaps the cleaners were
within. But presently there was a sound of singing, in men's voices only,
and without any kind of musical accompaniment. Just then the clock in the
steeple struck nine, and chimes began to play:

Days and moments quickly flying.

The singing came to an end, and there was some low, inarticulate droning,
and then a general "Amen." The hammer of the bell continued to beat out
its hymn, and Glory stood under the shadow of the tree to collect her
thoughts.

Then the sacristy door opened and a line of men came out. They were in
long black cassocks, and they crossed the courtyard from the church to
the house with the measured and hasty step of monks, and with their hands
clasped at their breasts. Almost at the end of the line, walking with an
old man whose tread was heavy, there was a younger one who was
bareheaded, and who did not wear the cassock. The moon threw a light on
his face, which looked pale and worn. It was John Storm.

Glory gave a faint cry, a gasp, and he turned round as if startled.

"Only the creaking of the sycamore," said the Superior. And then the
mysterious shadows took them; they passed into the house, the door was
closed, and she was alone with the chimes:

Days and moments quickly flying,
Blend the living with the dead.

Glory's strength had deserted her, and she went away as she came. When
she got back to Victoria, she felt for the first time as if her own
little life had been swallowed up in the turmoil of London, and she had
gone down to the cold depths of an icy sea.

It was a quarter to ten when she returned to the ward, and the matron,
with her dog on her lap, was waiting to receive her.

"Didn't I tell you that you could not go out to-night?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Glory.

"Then how did you dare to go?"

Glory looked at her