"But suppose, my dear, that there isn't any sorrow----" "Oh, then the world would not be worth living in, I should go out to the islands of the Pacific and become a missionary. Do you know, Ambrose dear, I've often thought of putting on boys' clothes and going to live in the wilderness. A boy seems so much more active than a girl, and what does it matter since sex no longer counts?" He looked at her aghast. "Sex no longer counts!" "No," she said in the simplest way, "people will become too spiritual for that. You will have to love me as though I were your sister, Ambrose----" Ambrose gulped down a "d----n" and was quite relieved to find himself presently in the study of the venerable canon, who was just leaving England for a Continental holiday. He said that he was not tired, but really there was very little work to do--and he added, with a laugh: "It would almost appear, my children, as though some one had locked up the devil and there was no more work left for us parsons." "But that surely would be a great, good thing," exclaimed Ambrose, astonished. "In a way, yes," the canon rejoined, "but consider, all life depends upon that impulse which comes of strife--strife of the body, strife of the soul. I worship God believing He has called upon me to take my share in fighting the evil which is in the world. Remove that evil, and what is my inspiration? Beyond the grave, yes, there may be that sphere of holiness to which the human condition contributes nothing--a sphere in which all happiness, all goodness centres about the presence of the Eternal--but here we know that man must strive or perish, must fight or be conquered--must school his immortal soul in the fire of temptation and of suffering. So, I say, it may even be a bad day for the world could the devil be chained in bonds which even he could not burst. It might even be the loss of the knowledge of the God by whom evil is permitted to live that good may come." This and much more he said, always in the tone of one who bared his head to destiny and had a faith unconquerable. When they left him, Kitty appeared to have made up her mind, and she spoke so earnestly that even her lover could not argue with her. "Ambrose, dear," she said, "I must see you no more, I shall devote my life to good works. To-night I shall enter the Convent of the Little Sisters at Kensington. It is a long, long good-bye, my dearest." He did not answer her, but calling a taxi, he ordered the man to drive to Throgmorton Street like the deuce. III He had told James and John to go home, but to his annoyance he found them still in the office and busy as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Brushing by them, he dashed into the inner room and turned the key in the lock of his safe. "Come out!" he cried, but nobody answered him.