It had been written perhaps a year ago, and it had not concerned him much at the time as he was so engrossed in his study of the architecture of the south of France. He recalled it now just in time to tell the father how his mother had written him about the class, and so save his reputation as a Sunday school teacher. It transpired that the daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the stranger so constantly referred to as writing him letters about things were one and the same. He wondered vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to teach a class of young men, but his mind was more concerned with something else now.

It appeared that the former mission where he had been superintendent had grown into a live Sunday school, and that they were looking for his homecoming with great joy and expectation. How could such a thing be other than disconcerting to the man he had become? He had no time to be bothered with his former life. He had his life work to attend to, which was not—and now he began to feel irritated—mission Sunday schools. That was all well enough for his boyhood, but now—and besides there was the "ladye of high degree."

Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of the shoulders and the upper lip and divined the thoughts of the other. His heart sank for his daughter and her boys, and the mission, and their plans for his homecoming, and he made up his mind that secret or no secret, this man must be told a little of the joy of sacrifice that had been going on for him, for surely he could not have been the man that he had been, and not have enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that story, no matter what he had become. And so he told him as much of the story his daughter had written him as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth Stanley thanked him and tried to show that he was properly appreciative of the honor that was to be shown him. He tried not to show his annoyance about it all to the stranger, and got away as soon as possible, after a few polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and went to his stateroom. Arrived there, he seated himself on the side of his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and sat scowling out of the porthole with anything but a cultured manner.

"Confound it all!" he muttered to himself. "I suppose it's got to be gone through with some way for mother's sake and after they've made so much fuss about it all. I can see it's all that girl's getting up; some silly girl that thinks she's going to become prominent by this sort of thing. Going to give me a present! And I've got to go up there and be bored to death by a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of slippers or something of the sort. It's awfully trying. And they needn't think I'm going back to that kind of thing, for I'm not. I'll move to New York first. I wish I had stayed in France! I wish I had never worked in Forest Hill Mission!" Oh, John Stanley! Sorry you ever labored and prayed for those immortal souls, and wrought into your crown imperishable jewels that shall shine for you through all eternity!

Chapter Two

THEY stood in the gallery of one of New York's most famous art stores; seven stalwart boys—young men, perhaps, you would call them—all with an attempt at "dress up," and with them Margaret Manning, slender and grave and sweet. They were chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little woman who knew a great deal about social laws and customs, and always spoke of things by their latest names, if possible, and who took the lead in most of the talk by virtue of her position in society and her supposed knowledge of art. There were also Mrs. Brown, a plain woman who felt deeply the responsibility of the occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little man who was shrewd in business and who came along to see that they did not get cheated. These constituted the committee to select a present for the home-returning superintendent of the Forest Hill Mission Sunday school. It was a large committee and rather too heterogeneous to come to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary. Margaret Manning was on it, of course. That had been a settled thing from the beginning. There would not have been any such gift, probably, if Margaret had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till their fund went away up above their highest hopes.

The seven boys were in her Sunday school class, and no one of them could get the consent of himself to make so momentous a decision for the rest of the class without the other six to help. Not that these seven were her entire class by any means, but the class had elected to send seven from their own number, so seven had come. Strictly speaking, only one was on the committee, but he depended upon the advice of the other six to aid him.

"Now, Mr. Thorpe," said Mrs. Ketchum in her easy, familiar manner, "we want something fine, you know.