“Tell him I was on the point of going down,” said John. And the Reverend Golightly coughed and bowed himself out. The canon had also had a visitor that morning. It was Mrs. Macrae herself. She sat on a chair covered with a tiger skin, sniffed at her scented handkerchief, and poured out all her sorrows. Mercy had rebelled against her authority, and it was entirely the fault of the new curate, Mr. Storm. She had actually refused to carry out her engagement with Lord Robert, and it all came of that dreadful sermon on Sunday. It was dishonourable, it was unprincipled, and it was a pretty thing to teach girls to indulge their whims without regard to the wishes of parents! “Here have I been two years in London, spending a fortune on the girl and trying to do my best for her, and the moment I fix her in one of the first English families, this young man--this curate--this---- Upon my honour, it's real wicked, it's shameful!” And the handkerchief steeped in perfume went up from the nose to the eyes. The canon swung his _pince-nez_. “Don't put yourself about, my dear Mrs. Macrae. Leave the matter to me. Miss Macrae will give up her objections, and----” “Oh, you mustn't judge her by her quietness, canon. You don't know her character. She's real stubborn when her mind's made up. But I'll be as stubborn as she is--I'll take her back to America--I'll never spend another penny----” “And as for Mr. Storm,” continued the canon, “I'll make everything smooth in that quarter. You mustn't think too much about the unhappy sermon--a little youthful _esprit fort_--we all go through it, you know.” When Mrs. Macrae had gone, he rang twice for Mr. Golightly and said, “Tell Mr. Storm to come down to me immediately.” “With pleasure, sir,” said the little man; and then he hesitated. “What is it?” said the canon, adjusting his glasses. “I have never told you, sir, how I found him the night you sent me to the hospital.” “Well, how?” “On his knees to a Catholic priest who was visiting a patient.” The canon's glasses fell from his eyes and his broad face broke into strange smiles. “I thought the Sorceress of Rome was at the bottom of it,” he said. “His uncle shall know of this, and unless I am sadly deceived--but fetch him down.” John Storm was wearing his flannel shirt that morning, and he came downstairs with a heavy tread and swung himself, unasked, into the chair that had just before been occupied by Mrs. Macrae.