“Yes, Brother Andrew as well. But holy men in all ages have been bound by ties of intimacy and affection to good women who have lived and worked beside them.” “Sisters, my son, elder sisters always.” “And why not? Sister, indeed, and united to me by a great and spiritual love.” “We are none of us invincible, my son; let us not despise danger.” “Danger, Father! What is the worth of my religion if it does not enable me to defy that?” “Well, well--do not decide too soon. I'll come to you at Soho this evening.” “Do. It's our last night there. I must tell my poor people what my plans are to be. Good-bye for the present, Father, good-bye.” “Good-bye, my son,” and as John Storm went off with a light heart and bounding step the Father passed indoors with downcast face, saying to himself with a sigh, “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.” It was Lord Mayor's Day again, the streets were thronged, and John Storm was long in forging his way home. Glory's letter was waiting for him, and he tore it open with nervous fingers, but when he had read it he laughed aloud. “God bless her! But she doesn't know everything yet.” Mrs. Callender was out in the carriage; she would be back for lunch, and the maid was laying the cloth; but he would not wait. After scribbling a few lines in pencil to tell of his great resolve, he set off to Clement's Inn. The Strand was less crowded when he returned to it, and the newsboys were calling the evening papers with “Full Memoir of Father Damien.” * * * * * On coming home from rehearsal Glory had found the costume for her third act, her great act, awaiting her. All day long she had been thinking of her letter to John, half ashamed of it, half regretting it, almost wishing it could be withdrawn. But the dress made a great tug at her heart, and she could not resist the impulse to try it on. The moment she had done so the visionary woman whose part she was to play seemed to take possession of her, and shame and regret were gone. It was a magnificent stage costume, green as the grass in spring with the morning sun on it. The gown was a splendid brocade with gold-embroidered lace around the square-cut neck and about the shoulders of the tight-made sleeves. Round her hips was a sash of golden tissue, and its hanging ends were fringed with emeralds. A band of azure stones encircled her head, and her fingers were covered with turquoise rings. She went to the drawing-room, shut the door, and began to rehearse the scene. It was where the imaginary Gloria, being vain and selfish, trampled everything under her feet that she might possess the world and the things of the world. Glory spoke the words aloud, forgetting they were not her own, until she heard another voice saying, “May I come in, dear?”