“Really?” rising and kicking back her train. “Well, as I say, we ought to fix it right away. Why not hold a meeting in my drawing-room? All denominations, you say? I don't mind--not in a cause like that,” and she glanced round her room as if thinking it was always possible to disinfect it afterward. Somebody was coughing loudly in the hall as John stepped downstairs. It was the Archdeacon coming in. “Ah,” he exclaimed, with a flourish of the hand, greeting John as if they had parted yesterday and on the best of terms. Yes, there _had_ been changes, and he was promoted to a sphere of higher usefulness. True, his good friends had looked for something still higher, but it was the premier archdeaconry at all events, and in the Church, as in life generally, the spirit of compromise ruled everything. He asked what John was doing, and on being told he said, with a somewhat more worldly air, “Be careful, my dear Storm, don't encourage vice. For my part, I am tired of the 'fallen sister.' To tell you the truth, I deny the name. The painted Jezebel of the Piccadilly pavement is no sister of mine.” “We don't choose our relations, Archdeacon,” said John. “If God is our Father, then all men are our brothers, and all women are our sisters whether we like it or not.” “Ah! The same man still, I see. But we will not quarrel about words. Seen the dear Prime Minister lately? Not _very_ lately? Ah, well”--with a superior smile--“the air of Downing Street--it's so bad for the memory, they say,” and coughing loudly again, he stepped upstairs. John Storm went home that day light-handed but with a heavy heart. “Begging is an ill trade on a fast day, laddie,” said Mrs. Callender. “Sit you down and tak' some dinner.” “How dare these people pray, 'Our Father which art in heaven?' It's blasphemy! It's deceit!” “Aye, and they would deceive God about their dividends if he couldn't see into their safes.” “Their money is the meanest thing Heaven gives them. If I asked them for their health or their happiness, Lord God, what would they say?” On the Sunday night following John Storm preached to an overflowing congregation from the text, “This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth and honoureth me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.” But a few weeks afterward his face was bright and his voice was cheery, and he was writing another letter to Glory: “In full swing at last, Glory. To carry out my new idea I had to get three thousand pounds more of my mother's money from my uncle. He gave it up cheerfully, only saying he was curious to see what approach to the Christian ideal the situation of civilization permitted. But Mrs. Callender is _dour_, and every time I spend sixpence of my own money on the Church she utters withering sarcasms about being only a 'daft auld woman hersel',' and then I have to caress and coax her.