onslaught of
the rain, as the car rolled along. Julia stared sombrely through the
drenched glass, now and then kissing the perfumed top of the little silk
cap that covered the drowsy head on her breast. It was a long trip to
Shotwell Street; for all her family's peculiarities, it was rather a sad
trip to-day. She let her thoughts drift on to the coming changes in her
life. She thought of New York, of the great unknown ocean, of
London--London to Julia meant fog, hansom cabs, and crossings that must
be swept. It was not, she felt, with a certain baffled resentment, what
she wanted to do. London was full of Miss Toland's friends, and Julia
was too sick in spirit to wish to meet them now. To be alone--to be
alone--to be alone--some gasping inner spirit prayed continually. They
would go to Oxfordshire, of course. But Miss Toland would be miserable
in the country, she was always miserable in the country.

They were passing Eighteenth Street, passing St. Charles's shabby little
church. Julia stopped the motor. She got out and carried the baby up the
stairs, and went up the echoing aisle to a front pew, where Anna could
sit and stare about her. Julia, panting, dropped on her knees. The big
edifice was empty, and smelled of damp plaster, rain rattled the high
windows. The afternoon was so dark that the sanctuary light sent a
little pool of quivering red to the floor below.

After a while a very plain young woman came out of the vestry, and
walking up the steps to the main altar, carried away one of the great
candlesticks. She was presently joined by a little nun; the two
whispered unsmilingly together, came and went fifty times with flowers,
with candles, with fresh altar linen.

Julia could not pray. Her thoughts would not settle themselves; they
drifted back and forth like rippling breezes over grass. She felt that
if she might kneel here an hour she could begin to pray. Now a thousand
little things distracted her: the odour of the church, the crisping feet
of some one entering the church far behind her, the odour of the damp
glove upon which she rested her cheek.

Life troubled her; she was afraid. She had thought it lay plain and
straight before her; now all her guide posts were gone, and all her
pathways led into deeper and deeper uncertainty. The utter confusion
into which she had been thrown made even her own identity indefinite to
her; she suffered less for this bewilderment. If by the mere raising of
her hand she