and to become his wife, if he will have me when I tell him all my love was given long ago to Philip Graham. But I remember Philip's words, and that he considers me true and worthy; so while the others go out to the Park I stay at home, to have a quiet afternoon to answer Mr. Beauchamp's letter, and to tell him that I cannot marry him.

It is a brilliant warm day, and I am writing in father's study. I am very puzzled what to say to Mr. Beauchamp, and my thoughts revert to that other letter I wrote to Philip this time a year ago. I pass my fingers through my hair with a vague idea that that will help me what to say, when I hear the study door open and close again from the outside; then I look up to see who has entered, and can scarcely believe my eyes, for it is Philip Graham.

In that one glance I can see that Philip loves me still, and that no one has come between us. That he loves me with the same passionate longing is evident; for before either of us has time to reflect he has caught me to him, and I have thrown my arms round his neck, and can say nothing but Philip,' while he smoothes my hair and murmurs,

'Lois ! my little Lois !'

Here I cannot help interrupting him with my exclamation of,

'O Philip, it is what I have been praying for night and day.'

Then I break down, and cover my face with my hands, as I remember that he has said nothing to me that has given me any right to revert to old times.

At length I look up, and find the same fond old smile on his face as he takes my hand, and says,

'So, Lois, you do love me, though you wrote that letter, which has kept me an exile for a year?'

And my eyes answer for me; for in another moment I am in his arms again, and he is pressing his lips to mine.

'I came on here from your father's office to get him to draw up an agreement for a partnership with Dr. Drewitt; but now he will have to give me a deed of gift instead; for I shall not give you up easily this time, little Lois.'

Before the others come in we have settled everything; and Philip and I are looking forward to spend

gether.

Ir was a wretched old tumbledown building, a sort of dilapidated barn, furnished within with rude wooden benches, over which the coarse gaslight flickered and flared. These benches were usually filled with creatures of the lowest class, drawn thither by the earnest, almost agonisingly pleading tones that rang out through the open window, falling on the stillness of night with a tremendous force and a painful pathos that made every ear that heard pause to listen. Men swarmed from the narrow cross streets, the crowded alleys, and gathered in groups within the building like as if drawn from their hiding-places by a voice crying aloud in the wilderness of the big town. The barn-like edifice had for years been known as a place for midnight prayer, and it was no unusual thing in that purlieu of Liverpool for men, women, and even children to gather under its shelter, mostly in tempestuous weather. Some of them went from sheer curiosity, some to mock and jibe, others to escape for a while from their vile cellars and garrets; and amongst all these there were

VOL. XXI.

a few hard honest workers perhaps, who, after hours of toil, went reverently for words of the hope and consolation of which their daily life was so horribly barren.

The small knots of human beings had grown into one immense crowd-a dense squalid mass of humanity clothed in rags-unkempt and unwashed and ignorant as heathens; a crowd that was evidently of the very dregs of the people, of the scum of the earth, as it were; for after the daylight had waned and the glorious sunshine of heaven had given place to gasglare, the petty shops closed their shutters, their proprietors retired to domestic quietude or sallied out on pleasure intent, and the neighbourhood became haunted by the desolate and the dissolute-those who wanted a roof to cover them or those who craved even the change and excitement of a prayer-meeting to their own miserable lodging.

But those who went there from idle curiosity or with a mocking spirit stayed, spell-bound by the simple but touching eloquence of a man who stood at one end of the room, pleading with the hardened

I

souls gathered around him as if each of those he addressed had power over his own life.

A tall muscular-built individual was walking quickly down the street when that loud voice, full of passionate religion, fell on his ear. He stopped dead short, caught his breath, and with a deep-red flush on his swarthy face listened with intense interest.

A gas-lamp streamed full upon features on which surprise was legibly written, but after a moment a strange look settled down upon them.

'It's him! It's Robert Price's voice as I first heard it! It's the old eloquent tone, the clear ringing accents! I have found him, I believe. No two voices as similar as that ever mocked Heaven, I know.'

He slouched his hat well down over his dark shaggy brows, buttoned a light overcoat over the good well-made suit of black that he wore, then turned and made his way quickly through the crowd, and stood a little in the shade, although quite within speaking distance of the preacher.

He resolutely kept his stand, although the throng of people huddled up against him like a flock of sheep. After a while some of the crowd moved into shadowy corners, averting their faces as if ashamed of the tears that attested to the humanity within them; others seated themselves on the benches with their startled countenances uplifted, their wild eyes glowing beneath the fervent eloquence which rang over them and thrilled through the silence of the deserted streets.

There was something almost sublime in the earnestness of the preacher. His haggard eyes scintillated and grew momentarily brighter with excitement, his thin sensitive lips curved and quivered under the torrent of burning words

that poured out upon the motley crowd. The stranger kept his place; but all that pathos and eloquence only brought a cynical smile to his mouth and a spice of mockery to his eye. His swarthy face never changed its unpleasant cast until the preacher alluded with touching humility to his own unfitness as a teacher. Then the new-comer's sinister look hardened into a malicious sneer as the speaker dwelt on this subject with abject selfabasement, proclaiming that he did not presume to teach his hearers from a standpoint of Christian excellence, but as a fellow-creature given to grievous backsliding, miserably weak and infirm of purpose, unfit, terribly unfit, to plead with his fellow-men, save by the infinite grace of God.

All the preacher said was undoubtedly sincere. The truth stirred every feature of his pale wan face, and suffused his mournful eyes with unshed tears. He spoke for full half an hour of himself as being no better than his audience; of sins that over-matched theirs, inasmuch as greater advantages had been given him, and powers that neglect and evil companions had turned into curses. Such language was not unusual in midnight meetings, but never before had they listened to a discourse so intensely real. There was no mock humility in the voice, no impudent attempt to attain a miserable notoriety by proclaiming imaginary sins in order to place himself on a level with his listeners. The excessively genuine pathos of his self-reproach won the people to a quick sympathy. There was no dramatic action in the man's delivery, no stormy phrases, no studied flowers of rhetoric; but his force lay in making those rough natures shake off their sloth and aspire for a time, at any rate, towards that human goodness which

He turned towards the crowd fully, and reaching forth his long thin arms, pleaded that all should join with him in struggling to reach the better life.

'Listen to one who has known the bitterness of sin, the misery of evil-doing, and try to go forth into the pure light. If a knowledge of sin and a loathing of it can fit a fellow-being to guide you, then I may entreat you to listen. There is not in all this crowd a man or a woman whose transgressions have been greater than those of him who prays and pleads with you this night!'

'Amen, amen!'

The word rang out low, but distinct and sharp as steel from the very venom that cut through it. The burning eloquence of the preacher died right away on his ashen lips. The word 'Amen' had struck him dumb. His outstretched arms fell nervelessly down, big beads of moisture gathered on his high forehead, his tall figure swayed like a reed in the blast.

'Who is it that speaks?' he cried out, in the irrepressible agony of his spirit.

There was no reply; but for an instant the swarthy stranger pushed up the hat that crowned his brow, and two pair of eyes met.

The preacher took a handkerchief, clutching it tightly in his hand, and made a feeble effort to wipe the drops from his forehead. Then his limbs gave way, and he sank slowly on his knees, his face drooped forward, and for a moment the silence of death rested on the startled crowd.

In a few minutes the white scared face was uplifted once more, and an agonised prayer struggled through the trembling lips, louder and louder, firmer and firmer it rose, till the man's whole soul seemed

At last he stood upon his feet, and gazed round the building as if nerving himself to meet some mortal enemy.

But the black-browed man whose one word had been so powerful had disappeared from the building.

CHAPTER IX.

'MINE ENEMY HATH FOUND ME OUT.'

THE mass of low squalid humanity who had been witnesses to the curious episode in the midst of the prayer-meeting were of too obtuse a nature to be impressed by it. by it. The simple word 'Amen' that had paralysed the man who preached had fallen on them unheeded, and as soon as another lecturer took his stand at the desk half the crowd left the edifice. With the various groups that went out into the street, the man whose sublime eloquence had assembled them also disappeared. For a while he lingered near the old building, and creeping into the densest shadow laid his forehead against the rugged walls.

'Heaven help me; for mine enemy hath found me out!' he cried. His voice came brokenly; his breath came sharply, he bowed his throbbing brow against the cold stone, and though fever burnt in his veins he shivered all over with the chill. Suddenly a hand was rudely placed on his shoulder, and a mocking laugh sounded in his

ear.

'Robert Price!'

The man addressed shrank away from the touch, keeping his head down like a beaten hound.

'Not that name, for mercy-sake! I don't know it; I shall never