“'----it behooves us to consider if the community is not to be congratulated on its speedy and effectual ending. Father Storm is a young man of some talents and social position, but without any special experience or knowledge of the world--in fact a weak, oversanguine, and rather foolish fanatic----'” “Oh, aye, he's down; down with him!” “'----and therefore it is monstrous that he should be allowed to subvert the order of social life or disturb the broad grounds of the reasonable and the practical----'” “Never mind. High winds only blaw on high hills, laddie!” “'----As for the “fallen sister” whom he has taken under his special care, we confess to a feeling that too much sympathy has been wasted on her already. Her feet take hold of hell, her house is the way of the grave, going down to the chamber of death----'” Mrs. Callender leaped to her feet. “That's the 'deacon-man; I ken the cloven hoof!” John Storm had flung the paper away. “What a cowardly world it is!” he said. “But God wins in the end, and by God he shall!” “Tut, man! don't tak' on like that. You can't climb the Alps on roller-skates, you see! But as for the Archdeacon, pooh! I'm no windy aboot your 'Sisters' and 'Settlements' and sic like, but if there had been society papers in the Lord's time, Simon the Pharisee would have been a namby-pamby critic compared to some of them.” A moment afterward she was looking out of the window and holding up both hands. “My gracious! It's himsel'! It's the Prime Minister!” A gaunt old gentleman with a meagre mustache, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and unfashionable black clothes, was stepping up to the door. “Yes, it's my uncle!” said John, and the old lady fled out of the room to change her cap. “I have heard what has happened, John, so I have come to see you,” said the Prime Minister. Was he thinking of the money? John felt uneasy and ashamed. “I'm sorry, my boy, very sorry!” “Thank you, uncle.” “But it all comes, you see, of the ridiculous idea that we are a Christian nation! Such a thing couldn't have occurred at the shrine of a pagan god!” “It was only a proprietary church, uncle. I was much to blame.” “I do not deny that you have acted unwisely, but what difference does that make, my boy? To sell a church seems like the climax of irreverence; but they are doing as bad every day. If you want to see what times the Church has fallen on, look at the advertisements in your religious papers--your Benefice and Church Patronage Gazette, and so forth. A traffic, John, a slave traffic, worse than anything in Africa, where they sell bodies, not souls!” “It is a crime which cries to the avenging anger of Heaven,” said John; “but it is the Establishment that is to blame, not the Church, uncle.”