I was shown by the verger to a pew well in front, and found that the congregation was by no means a small one, comprising many who appeared to be tradespeople from the Walworth Road. Yet there was about the place a damp, mouldy smell, which rendered it a very depressing place of worship. As I had hoped, my friend, Yelverton, conducted the service, and afterwards preached a striking sermon upon "Brotherliness," a discourse so brilliant that he held his not too educated congregation breathless in attention. At length, when the Benediction had been pronounced, and the congregation rose to leave, I made my way into the vestry, where I found him taking off his surplice. "Hulloa, Clifton!" he cried, welcoming me warmly, "so you've found me out, eh?" "Yes," I answered. "Why haven't you called, as you promised?" I simply uttered the first words that arose to my lips, for truth to tell, I had a moment before made a surprising and unexpected discovery. As I had risen from my seat I saw behind me a tall, thin lady in deep mourning, wearing a veil. I could not see the face, but by her figure and her gait as she turned to make her way out I recognised her. It was Aline Cloud. She had come there to listen to the preaching of the man she loved. Once again, then, had she come into the life of this man who had fled from her as from a temptress. The verger went back into the church, and my friend pushed to the door in order that whoever remained should not witness us, then answered-- "I've been busy--terribly busy, my dear fellow. Forgive me." "Of course," I answered. "But it was a surprise to me to hear that you had left Duddington, although, of course, we couldn't expect you to bury yourself down there altogether." "Well, I had this offer," he answered, hanging up his surplice in the cupboard, "and being so much interested in the work here, I couldn't refuse." "It seems a dismal place," I observed, "a terribly dismal place." "Yes," he sighed. "There's more misery and poverty here than even in the East End. Here we have the deserving poor--the people who are too proud to throw themselves on the parish, yet they haven't a few coppers to get the bare necessaries of life with. If you came one round with me, Clifton, you'd witness scenes which would cause your heart to bleed. And this in London--the richest city in the world! While at the Cafe Royal or Jimmy's you will cheerfully give a couple or three pounds for a dinner with a friend, here, within fifty yards of this place, are people actually starving because they can't get a herring and a pennyworth of bread. Ah! you who have had no experience in the homes of these people can't know how despairing, how cheerless, is the life of the deserving poor." "And you live here?" I asked. "You prefer this cramped, gloomy place to the fresh air and free life of the country? You would rather visit these overcrowded slums than the homely cottages of the agricultural labourer?"