He tramped through the slums of Melbourne and Sydney, and afterward through the slums of London, returned to the Isle of Man a Christian Socialist, and announced to his father his intention of going into the Church. The old man did not fume and fly out. He staggered back to his room like a bullock to its pen after it has had its death-blow in the shambles. In the midst of his dusty old bureau, with its labelled packets full of cuttings, he realized that twenty years of his life had been wasted. A son was a separate being, of a different growth, and a father was only the seed at the root that must decay and die. Then he made some show of resistance. “But with your talents, boy, surely you are not going to throw away your chances of a great name?” “I care nothing for a great name, father,” said John. “I shall win a greater victory than any that Parliament can give me.” “But, my boy, my dear boy! one must either be the camel or the camel-driver; and then society----” “I hate society, and society would hate me. It is only for the sake of the few godly men that God spares it as he spared Sodom for Lot's sake.” Having braved this ordeal and nearly broken the heart of his old father, he turned for his reward to Glory. He found her at her usual haunt on the headlands. “I was blushing when you came up, wasn't I?” she said. “Shall I tell you why?” “Why?” “It was this,” she said, with a sweep of her hand across her bosom. He looked puzzled. “Don't you understand? This old rag--it's the one I was wearing before you went away.” He wanted to tell her how well she looked in it--better than ever now that her bosom showed under its seamless curves, and her figure had grown so lithe and shapely. But though she was laughing he saw she was ashamed of her poverty, and he thought to comfort her. “I'm to be a poor man myself in future, Glory. I've quarrelled with my father. I'm going to take Orders.” Her face fell. “Oh, I didn't think anybody would be poor who could help it. To be a clergyman is all right for a poor man, perhaps, but I hate to be poor; it's horrid.” Then darkness fell upon his eyes and he felt sad and sick. Glory had disappointed him. She was vain, she was worldly, she was incapable of the higher things; she would never know what a sacrifice he had made for her; she would think nothing of him now; but he would go on all the same, the more earnestly because the devil had drawn a bow at him and the arrow had gone in up to the feathers. “With God's help I shall nail my colours to the mast,” he said. Thus he made up his mind to follow the unrolling of the scroll. He had the strength called character. The Church had been his beacon before, but now it was to be his refuge.