“It is wonderful,” my mother answered, “that he has escaped recognition. There has been so much written about this place lately. Only last week I was asked to come here. Every one has been talking about the marvellous influence he has gained over these people.” We waited there for him. In little groups the congregation came slowly out and dispersed. The lights in the main body of the building were extinguished. Still he did not come. We were on the point of seeking for a side entrance when a man came hurriedly out of the darkened building and commenced running up the street. Something seemed to tell me the truth. “That man has gone for a doctor,” I cried. “See, he has stopped at the house with the red lamp. He is ill! I am going inside.” I tried the door. It opened at my touch and we groped our way across the unlit room, bare and desolate enough now with its rows of empty and disarranged chairs, and with little clouds of dense tobacco smoke still hanging about. In a little recess behind the platform we found my father. One man--a cabman he seemed to be--was holding his hand, another was supporting his head. When he saw us he smiled faintly. “God is very good,” he murmured. “There was nothing I wished for but to see you once more.” I dropped on my knees by his side. There was a mist before my eyes and a great lump in my throat. “You are worse,” I cried. “Have they sent for a doctor?” “It is the end,” he said, softly. “It will all be over very soon now. I am ready. My work here was commenced. It is not granted to any one to do more than to make commencements. Give--give--ah!” The flutter of a gown close at hand disturbed me. I followed my father’s eyes. Olive Berdenstein had glided from a dark corner underneath one of the galleries, and was coming like a wraith towards us. I half rose to my feet in a fit of passionate anger. Bruce, too, had taken a hasty step towards her. “Can’t you see you are too late?” he whispered to her hoarsely. “Go away from here. It is no place for you.” “Too late,” she murmured, softly, and then the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the hall made us all look round and my heart died away within me. Two men in plain clothes were within a few yards of us; a policeman followed close behind. My father closed his eyes, and from the look of horror in his face I knew how he had dreaded this thing. One of the men advanced to Olive Berdenstein, and touched his hat. I can hear her voice now. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith,” she said, “I have made a mistake. This is not the man.” There was a dead silence for a minute or two, and then a little murmur of voices which reached me as though from a great distance. I heard the sound of their retreating footsteps. I caught a glimpse of Olive Berdenstein’s tear-stained face as she bent for a moment over my father’s prostrate figure. “I forgive,” she whispered. “Farewell.”