The sacristan was putting out the lights in St. Ethelreda's after evening service. The church was cool and still now that the people had gone. A restful gloaming fell upon the deserted aisles. One sunset shaft crept aslant the pictured walls, on the Virgin Mother and her Holy Child. Before the altars, the perpetual lamps swung solemnly. In this sanctuary of hushed repose, Madge Barberry lingered late and last of all the worshippers. She was never lonely here. The lines of statued saints looked down upon her from their niches with tender reminder that they, too, of old had fought her wars. Victorious, they were no less her fellow-soldiers. They were still one with that brave world-army of heroic men and women battling with high tides of poverty and misfortune. She went regretfully down the shadowy nave. Paul Vespan was waiting for her in the dark porch. "I came to meet you," he said; "Mrs. Xerxes told me you were here." She smiled gratefully as they went out into the dusty street together. Soon she would have him no more to walk beside her. Great changes had come to Paul Vespan since that dark night when Madge Barberry's brave hand snatched him from death to life. The editor, once his friend, had remained so. After a pleasant probation in his own office, he was sending him to take charge of a small provincial paper in a cathedral town. "You have heard the good news, Madge?" said Paul, thinking of this. Yes, she had heard it. But to her, it was not good news, though she was glad for him. "I hope you will be very happy," she faltered. "I shall be very lonely. Unless--Madge, will you come with me?" "I? Oh! no! I should be standing in your light." "You? What are you saying, Madge? Why, didn't you bring me back to light? My life will be dark, indeed, without you." "Then," she said, as they entered Marigold Place, "I will go with you." Paul Vespan's after-history bears tender witness to the wisdom of his choice. In the light of his wife's unswerving love, he works bravely. The rewards which are sure to come will be sweeter because shared by her. She is his "lady with the lamp," standing no more beside the weary craven in his hour of tragic necessity, but shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, with the valiant world-soldier in the thick of his battle for fame and fortune. [Illustration] [Illustration: ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO By Arthur Morrison & J.A. Shepherd] XXIV.--ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE. "Rodoporcine" is a portmanteau-word. It is not a regular scientific term, although, as I may claim with modest pride (being its inventor), it is almost ugly enough to be one. I have invented it largely for the benefit of the building (it is only one building) which the Zoological Society numbers six and seven, and divides arbitrarily into "The Swine House" and "The Rodents' House"; but chiefly I have invented it because I wanted a title for this Zig-zag. _Rodo_ I gnaw, _porcus_ a pig. [Illustration]