ogson's conduct will stir up a good many liberal Christians into
showing their disapproval of bigotry and injustice. Ah! Here is the dear
old square! The statue looks ten degrees moldier than when I left!"

In fact everything looked, as Erica expressed it, "moldier!"
"Persecution Alley," the lodging house, the very chairs and tables
seemed to obtrude their shabbiness upon her. Not that she cared in the
least; for, however shabby, it was home the home that she had longed for
again and again in the luxury and ease of Greyshot.

Raeburn looked up from a huge law book as she opened the door of his
study.

"Why, little son Eric!" he exclaimed. "You came so quietly that I never
heard you. Glad to have you home again, my child! The room looks as if
it needed you, doesn't it?"

Erica laughed for the study was indeed in a state of chaos. Books were
stacked up on the floor, on the mantel piece, on the chairs, on the
very steps of the book ladder. The writing table was a sea of papers,
periodicals, proofs, and manuscripts, upon which there floated with
much difficulty Raeburn's writing desk and the book he was reading, some
slight depression in the surrounding mass of papers showing where his
elbows had been.

"About equal to Teufelsdroch's room, isn't it?" he said, smiling.
"Everything united in a common element of dust.' But, really, after the
first terrible day of your absence, when I wasted at least an hour in
hunting for things which the tidy domestic had carefully hidden, I could
stand it no longer, and gave orders that no one was to bring brush or
duster or spirit of tidiness within the place."

"We really must try to get you a larger room," said Erica, looking
round. "How little and poky everything looks."

"Has Greyshot made you discontented?"

"Only for you," she replied, laughing. "I was thinking of Mr.
Fane-Smith's great study; it seems such a pity that five foot three,
with few books and nothing to do, should have all that space, and six
foot four, with much work and many books, be cramped up in this little
room."

"What would you say to a move?"

"It will be such an expensive year, and there's that dreadful Mr. Pogson
always in the background."

"But if a house were given to us? Where's Tom? I've a letter here which
concerns you both. Do either of you remember anything about an old Mr.
Woodward who lived at 16 Guilford Square?"

"Why, yes! Don't you remember, Tom? The old gentleman whose greenhouse
we