The thunderbolt fell on a day that she had devoted to her husband's interests. The bishop was having luncheon with the rector. The Mission Hall was to be opened in the afternoon, and the bishop had promised to be present. The full amount of the building funds had been subscribed, thus reimbursing the clergyman to the extent of a thousand dollars, the amount promised by Herresford and never paid. The ceremony brought to St. Botolph's Mission Hall the oddly-assorted crowd which generally finds its way to such functions. There were smart people, just a scattering of the cultured, dowdy and dull folk, who had "helped the good cause," and expected to get as much sober entertainment in return as might be had for the asking. Then, there were the ever-present army of free sight-seers, and a leaven of real workers. On the platform with the bishop and other notables, both men and women, sat Mrs. Swinton, and she sighed with unspeakable weariness. It had been one of those dull, monotonous, clerical days, replete with platitudes, the tedium of custom, and all the petty ceremonies and observances that she hated. She returned home worn out physically, and mentally benumbed. Netty, who had remained away, on pretence of a bad cold, met her mother in the hall. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Polly's in the drawing-room, and she says she's come to see what a high tea is like, and to be introduced to the dear bishop. Muriel West and Major Joicy are with her. They're singing comic songs at the piano." Mrs. Swinton looked annoyed. So far, she had avoided any clashing between her smart friends and her clerical acquaintances. Mrs. Ocklebourne was the last person in the world she wanted to see to-day. "Ah, here's our dear, saintly Mary, with her hands full of prayer-books!" exclaimed Polly Ocklebourne, as her hostess came into the room. "So glad you're home, dear. This little handful of sinners wants to be put through its paces before coming into the rarefied atmosphere of bishops and things. Where is the dear man?" "He is coming later, with John." "I hope you don't mind our coming, but we're awfully curious to see you presiding at a high tea, with the bishop's lady and her satellites. What are you going to feed the dears on, Mary? You'll ask us to stay, won't you? And, if I laugh, you'll find excuses for me." "Don't be absurd, Polly. I'd very much rather you hadn't come--you know that. But, since you're here, do try to be normal." "There you are!" cried racy Mrs. Ocklebourne, turning to her companions with a tragic expression; "I told you she wouldn't stretch out a hand to save sinners. But methinks I scent the cloth of the cleric, and I am sure I detect the camphor wherein furs have lain all summer. Come, Mary, bridge the gulf between the sheep and the goats, and introduce us to the bishop."