But John Storm intervened. He had looked icy cold, though the twitching of his lower lip showed that he was red hot within. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a quavering voice, “I apologize for bringing you together. I thought if we were in earnest about the union of Christendom we might at least unite in the real contest with evil. But I find it is a dream; we have only been trifling with ourselves, and there is not one of us who wants the union of Christendom, except on the condition that his rod shall be like Aaron's rod which swallowed up all the rest. It was a mistake, and I beg your pardon.” “Yes, sir,” said the Archdeacon, “it _was_ a mistake; and if you had taken my advice from the first, and asked the blessing of God through good High Churchmen alone----” “God doesn't wait for any asking,” said John, now flushing up to the eyes. “He gives freely to High Churchmen, Low Churchmen, and No Churchmen alike.” “If that is your opinion, sir, you are no better than some of your friends, and for my part I will never darken your door again!” “_Darken_ is a good word for it, Archdeacon,” said John, and with that the company broke up. Mrs. Macrae looked like a thunder-cloud as John bowed to her on passing out, but Mrs. Callender cried out in a jubilant voice, “Be skipper of your ain ship, laddie!” and added (being two yards behind the Archdeacon's broad back going down the stairs), “If some folks are to be inheritors of the kingdom of heaven there'll be a michty crush at the pearly gates, I'm thinking!” John Storm went back to Soho with a heavy heart. Going up Victoria Street he passed a crowd of ragged people who were ploughing their way through the carriages. Two constables were taking a man and woman to the police court in Rochester Row. The prisoners were Sharkey, the keeper of the gambling house, and his wife the baby-farmer. But within a week John Storm, in greater spirits than ever, was writing to Glory again: