to High Churchmen, Low Churchmen, and No Churchmen
alike."

"If that is your opinion, sir, you are no better than some of your
friends, and for my part I will never darken your door again!"

"_Darken_ is a good word for it, Archdeacon," said John, and with that
the company broke up.

Mrs. Macrae looked like a thunder-cloud as John bowed to her on passing
out, but Mrs. Callender cried out in a jubilant voice, "Be skipper of
your ain ship, laddie!" and added (being two yards behind the
Archdeacon's broad back going down the stairs), "If some folks are to be
inheritors of the kingdom of heaven there'll be a michty crush at the
pearly gates, I'm thinking!"

John Storm went back to Soho with a heavy heart. Going up Victoria Street
he passed a crowd of ragged people who were ploughing their way through
the carriages. Two constables were taking a man and woman to the police
court in Rochester Row. The prisoners were Sharkey, the keeper of the
gambling house, and his wife the baby-farmer.

But within a week John Storm, in greater spirits than ever, was writing
to Glory again:

"The Archdeacon has deserted me, but no matter! My uncle has advanced me
another thousand of my mother's money, so the crusade is
_self_-supporting in one sense at all events. What a fool I am! Ask Aunt
Anna her opinion of me, or say old Chalse or the village natural--but
never mind! Folly and wisdom are relative terms, and I don't envy the
world its narrow ideas of either. You would be amused to see how the
women of the West End are taking up the movement--Lady Robert Ure among
the rest! They have banded themselves into a Sisterhood, and christened
our clergy-house a 'Settlement.' One of my Greek owners came in the other
evening to see the alterations. His eyes glistened at the change, and he
asked leave to bring a friend. I trust you are well and settling things
comfortably, and that Miss Macquarrie has gone. It is raining through a
colander here, but I have no time to think of depressing weather.
Sometimes when I cross our great squares, where the birds sing among the
yellowing leaves, my mind goes off to your sweet home in the sunshine;
and when I drop into the dark alleys and lanes, where the pale-faced
children play in their poverty and rags, I think of a day that is coming,
and, God willing, is now so near, when a ministering angel of tenderness
and strength will be passing through them like a gleam. But I am more
than ever sure that you do