clock would turn
back for no man. These men and women in the streets knew all that had
happened. The poorest beggar on the pavement knew more than he did.
Nearly a year of his life was gone--in prayer, in penance, in fasting, in
visions, in dreams--dropped out, left behind, and lost forever.

Going by the Bank, the cab drew up again to allow a line of omnibuses to
pass into Cheapside. Every omnibus had its board for advertisements, and
nearly every board contained the word he had seen before--"GLORIA."

"Only the name of some music-hall singer," he told himself. But the name
had begun to trouble him. It had stirred the fibres of memory, and made
him think of the past--of his yacht, of Peel, of his father, and finally
of Glory--and again of Glory--and yet again of Glory.

He saw that flags were flying on the Mansion House and on the Bank, and,
pushing up the trap of the hansom, he asked if anything unusual was going
on.

"Lawd, down't ye know what day it is terday, sir? It's the dear ole
laidy's birthday. That's why all the wimming's going abart in their penny
carridges. Been through a hillness, sir?"

"Yes, something of that sort."

"Thort so, sir."

When the cab started afresh he began to tell himself what he was going to
do in the future. He was going to work among the poor and the outcast,
the oppressed and the fallen. He was going to search for them and find
them in their haunts of sin and misery. Nothing was to be too mean for
him. Nothing was to be common or unclean. No matter about his own good
name! No matter if he was only one man in a million! The kingdom of
heaven was like a grain of mustard seed.

When he came within sight of St. Paul's the golden cross on the dome was
flashing like a fiery finger in the blaze of the midday sun. That was the
true ensign! It was a monstrous and wicked fallacy, a gloomy and narrow
formula, that religion had to do with the affairs of the other world
only. Work was religion! Work was prayer! Work was praise! Work was the
love of man and the glory of God!

Glorious gospel! Great and deathless symbol!

THIRD BOOK. _THE DEVIL'S ACRE_.

I.

Behind Buckingham Palace there is a little square of modest houses
standing back from the tide of traffic and nearly always as quiet as a
cloister. At one angle of the square there is a house somewhat larger
than the rest but just as simple and unassuming. In the dining-room of
this house an elderly lady was sitting dow