r looked at him suspiciously. Had he an appointment? No; but
could he send in his name? The porter looked doubtful. Would she come out
soon? The porter did not know. Would she come this way? The porter could
not tell. Could he have her address?

"If ye want to write to the laidy, write here," said the porter, with a
motion of his hands to the pigeon-holes.

John Storm felt humiliated and ashamed. The hairdressers' assistants were
grinning at him. He went out, feeling that Glory was farther than ever
from him now, and if he met her they might not speak. But he could not
drag himself away. In the darkness under a lamp at the other side of the
street he stood and waited. Shoddy broughams drove up, with drivers in
shabby livery, bringing "turns" in wonderful hats and overcoats, over
impossible wigs, whiskers, and noses--niggers, acrobats, clowns, and
comic singers, who stepped out, shook the straw of their carriage carpets
off their legs, and passed in at the stage entrance.

At length the commissionaire appeared at the door and whistled, and a
hansom cab rattled up to the end of the court. Then a lady muffled in a
cape, with the hood drawn over her head, and carrying a bouquet of roses,
came out leaning on the arm of a gentleman. She stood a moment by his
side and spoke to him and laughed. John heard her laughter. At the next
moment she had stepped into the hansom, the door had fallen to, the
driver had turned, the gentleman had raised his hat, the light had fallen
on the lady's face, and she was leaning forward and smiling. John saw her
smiles.

At the next moment the hansom had passed into the illuminated
thoroughfares and the group of people had dispersed. John Storm was alone
under the lamp in the little dark street, and somewhere in the
dark alleys behind him the organ man was still grinding out
"Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay."

"Weel, what luck on your first night out?" said Mrs. Callender at
breakfast in the morning. "Found any of the poor lost things yet?"

"One," said John, with a rueful face. "Lost enough, though she doesn't
know it yet, God help her!"

"They never do at first, laddie. Write to her friends, if she has any."

"Her friends?"

"Nothing like home influences, ye ken."

"I will--I must! It's all I can do now."

III.

"The Priory, Friday Morning.

"Oh, my dear aunties, don't be terrified, but Glory has had a kind of a
wee big triumph! Nothing very awful, you know, but on Monday night,
befor