“The girl is suspended,” said the chairman, and reaching for the matron's book, he signed it and returned it. “This,” said the canon, “appears to be a case for Mrs. Callender's Maternity Home at Soho, and with the consent of the board I will request the chaplain to communicate with that lady immediately.” John Storm had heard, but he made no answer; he was turning over the leaves of the pamphlet. The canon hemmed and cleared his throat. “Mary Elizabeth Love,” he said, “you have brought a stain upon this honourable and hitherto irreproachable institution, but I trust and believe that ere long, and before your misbegotten child is born, you may see cause to be grateful for our forbearance and our charity. Speaking for myself, I confess it is an occasion of grief to me, and might well, I think, be a cause of sorrow to him who has had your spiritual welfare in his keeping” (here he gave a look toward John), “that you do not seem to realize the position of infamy in which you stand. We have always been taught to think of a woman as sweet and true and pure; a being hallowed to our sympathy by the most sacred associations, and endeared to our love by the tenderest ties, and it is only right” (the canon's voice was breaking), “it is only right, I say, that you should be told at once, and in this place--though tardily and too late--that for the woman who wrongs that ideal, as you have wronged it, there is but one name known among persons of good credit and good report--a hard name, a terrible name, a name of contempt and loathing--the name of _prostitute!_” Crushing the pamphlet in his hand, John Storm had taken a step toward the canon, but he was too late. Some one was there before him. It was Glory. With her head erect and her eyes flashing, she stood between the weeping girl and the black-coated judge, and everybody could see the swelling and heaving of her bosom. “How dare you!” she cried. “You say you have been taught to think of a woman as sweet and pure. Well, _I_ have been taught to think of a _man_ as strong and brave, and tender and merciful to every living creature, but most of all to a woman, if she is erring and fallen. But you are not brave and tender; you are cruel and cowardly, and I despise you and hate you!” The men at the tables were rising from their seats. “Oh, you have discharged my friend,” she said, “and you may discharge me, too, if you like--if you _dare_! But I will tell everybody that it was because I would not let you insult a poor girl with a cruel and shameful name, and trample upon her when she was down. And everybody will believe me, because it is the truth; and anything else you may say will be a lie, and all the world will know it!” The matron was shambling up also. “How dare you, miss! Go back to your ward this instant! Do you know whom you are speaking to?”