Mr. Lister shook his head. “I am sorry,” said he, “to have to deny you that last consolation. When the Strike began the churches were suddenly filled to overflowing by men who seldom or never went there before. They seemed to have an unreasoning instinct that the church might afford them some salutary consolation in their unexampled bereavement, but such did not prove to be the case. The truth was, that the ministers themselves felt as much as any class the deep reproach which woman’s action cast upon all mankind. They justly felt that teachers though they were, and exemplars though they were supposed to be, they had done even less than far less favoured men to lighten woman’s woes. Hence their perfunctory ministrations were without force, utterly inadequate, valueless, and comfortless. It was but a little while before they were feebly talking to empty pews. The churches closed. There are no assemblies of men of any kind except such as are for urging on the completion of the guarantee, and arranging for the casting of the ballots. This, as I told you, will take place the day after to-morrow. Till then I will spend as much time as possible with you, but I must now excuse myself as I have some clerical duties to perform in connection with the coming casting of the ballots.” Having said this, Mr. Lister withdrew from the house, but before doing so he showed me into his well-filled library and promised to return at noon. Left alone, I essayed to read a volume of new poems, but the face of a woman, not that of any particular woman whom I had known, but a typical face representing all women, hovered persistently, and with reproachful mien, between mine eyes and the page. I cast the book aside. I was strangely nervous. Presently the door-bell rang, and I sprang from my chair in unreasoning terror. For several moments I stood motionless in the centre of the room, muttering only, like Macbeth, “Silence that dreadful bell,” but at last arousing myself I went to the door. A boy stood there holding a bundle of papers under his arm, one of which he pertly extended toward me. “Have a _Bitter Cry_, Mister?” “A _Bitter Cry_!” said I petulantly, “what in Heaven’s name is that?” The boy stared at me for a moment in great surprise, and then said: “Why it is the paper which the women print every morning; just out, don’t yer know?” “Yes, yes, to be sure,” said I, eagerly snatching at the paper which he held toward me. “Give me the _Bitter Cry_; it is the echo of my own soul.” The boy stared at me in irreverent wonder, but took the coin I gave him and dashed down the street, while I closed the door and sank into a chair to read. I absorbed rather than read the contents of this strange paper, and this was the first article upon which my eye fell in the _Bitter Cry_: “TIMOTHY’S COMING.”