say to you."

"Come this way," said the Superior, and they passed out of the room
together.

The Father led the way to his room and closed the door behind them. But
there was little need for confession; the Father seemed to know
everything in an instant. He sat in his wicker chair before the fire and
rocked himself and moaned.

"Well, well, God's wrath comes up against the children of disobedience,
but we must do our best to bear our punishment."

John Storm made no excuses. He had stood by the Father's chair and told
his story simply, without fear or remorse, only concealing that part of
it which concerned himself in relation to Glory.

"Yes, yes," said the Father, "I see quite plainly how it has been. He was
like tinder, ready to take fire at a spark, and you were thinking I had
been hard and cruel and in-human."

It was the truth; John could not deny it; he held down his head and was
silent.

"But shall I tell you why I refused that poor boy's petition? Shall I
tell you who he was, and how he came to be here? Yes, I will tell you.
Nobody in this house has heard it until now, because it was his secret
and mine and God's alone--not given me in confession, no, or it would
have to be locked in my breast forever. But you have thrust yourself in
between us, so you must hear everything, and may the Lord pity and
forgive you and help you to bear your burden!"

John felt that a cold damp was breaking out on his forehead, but he
clinched his moist hands and made ready to control himself.

"Has he ever spoken of another sister?"

"Yes, he has sometimes mentioned her."

"Then perhaps you have been told of the painful and tragic event that
happened?"

"No," said John, but something that he had heard at the board meeting at
the hospital returned at that moment with a stunning force to his memory.

"His father, poor man, was one of my own people--one of the lay
associates of our society in the world outside. But his health gave way,
his business failed him, and he died in a madhouse, leaving his three
children to the care of a friend. The friend was thought to be a worthy,
and even a pious man, but he was a scoundrel and a traitor. The younger
sister--the one you know--he committed to an orphanage; the elder one he
deceived and ruined. As a sequel to his sin, she lived a life of shame on
the streets of London, and died by suicide at the end of it."

John Storm put up one hand to his head as if his brain was burstin