nk God for this answer to our prayers!" said the Father. "But you
must pray without ceasing lest Satan should conquer you again. Until the
end of the year say your Rosary in the church every night alone from
Compline to midnight."

Then turning to John he said with a smile: "And you shall be like the
anchoret of old to this household, my son. We monks pray by day, but the
anchoret prays by night. Unless we know that in the dark hours the
anchoret guards the house, who shall rest on his bed in peace?"

VII.

At the end of the fourth week, after Glory had paid her fee to the agent,
she called on him again. It was Saturday morning, and the vicinity of his
office was a strange and surprising scene. The staircase and passages to
the house, as well as the pavement of the streets far as to the
public-house at the corner, were thronged with a gaudy but shabby army of
music-hall artistes of both sexes. When Glory attempted to pass through
them she was stopped by a cry of, "Tyke yer turn on Treasury day, my
dear," and she fell back and waited.

One by one they passed upstairs, came down again with cheerful faces,
shouted their adieus and disappeared. Meanwhile they amused themselves
with salutations, all more or less lively and familiar, told stories and
exchanged confidences, while they danced a step or stamped about to keep
away the cold. "You've chucked the slap [* Rouge.] on with a mop this
morning, my dear," said one of the girls. "Have I, my love? Well, I was a
bit thick about the clear, so I thought it would keep me warm." "It ain't
no use facing the doner of the casa with that," said a man who jingled a
few coins as he came downstairs, and away went two to the public-house.
Sometimes a showy brougham would drive up to the door and a magnificent
person in a fur-lined coat, with diamond rings on both hands, would sweep
through the lines and go upstairs. When he came down again his carriage
door would be opened by half a dozen "pros" who would call him "dear old
cully" and tell him they were "down on their luck" and "hadn't done a
turn for a fortnight." He would distribute shillings and half-crowns
among them, cry "Ta-ta, boys," and drive away, whereupon his pensioners
would stroke their cuffs and collars of threadbare astrakhan, tip winks
after the carriage, and say, "That's better than crying cabbages in
Covent Garden, ain't it?" Then they would all laugh knowingly, and one
would say, "What's it to be, cully?" and