John Storm saw his uncle first in the spacious old cabinet room which looks out on the little garden and the Park. He was a gaunt old man with, meagre mustache and hair, and a face like a death's head. He held out his hand and smiled. His hand was cold and his smile was half tearful and half saturnine. “You are like your mother, John.” John never knew her. “When I saw her last you were a child in arms and she was younger than you are now.” “Where was that, uncle?” “In her coffin, poor girl.” The Prime Minister shuffled some papers and said, “Well, is there anything you wish for?” “Nothing. I've come to thank you for what you've done already.” The Prime Minister made a deprecatory gesture. “I almost wish you had chosen another career, John. Still, the Church has its opportunities and its chances, and if I can ever----” “I am satisfied; more than satisfied,” said John. “My choice is based, I trust, on a firm vocation. God's work is great, sir; the greatest of all in London. That is why I am so grateful to you. Think of it, sir----” John was leaning forward in his chair with one arm stretched out. “Of the five millions of people in this vast city, not one million cross the threshold of church or chapel. And then remember their condition. A hundred thousand live in constant want, slowly starving to death, every day and hour, and a quarter of the old people of London die as paupers. Isn't it a wonderful scene, sir? If a man is willing to be spiritually dead to the world--to leave family and friends--to go forth never to return, as one might go to his execution----” The Prime Minister listened to the ardent young man who was talking to him there with his mother's voice, and then said-- “I'm sorry.” “Sorry?” “I'm afraid I've made a mistake.” John Storm looked puzzled. “I've sent you to the wrong place, John. When you wrote, I naturally supposed you were thinking of the Church as a career, and I tried to put you in the way of it. Do you know anything of your vicar?” John knew that fame spoke of him as a great preacher--one of the few who had passed through their Pentecost and come out with the gift of tongues. “Precisely!” The Prime Minister gave a bitter little laugh. “But let me tell you something about him. He was a poor curate in the country where the lord of the manor chanced to be a lady. He married the lady of the manor. His wife died and he bought a London parish. Then, by the help of an old actor who gave lessons in elocution, he--well, he set up his Pentecost. Since then he has been a fashionable preacher and frequents the houses of great people. Ten years ago he was made an honorary canon, and, when he hears of an appointment to a bishopric, he says in a tearful voice, 'I don't know what the dear Queen has got against me.'” “Well, sir?”