The Yellow House

Bruce Deville leaning against a pillar with folded arms, and on my way to my pew I passed Adelaide Fortress seated in a chair in the nave. Neither of these two had I ever seen in church before,

gh the bells had ceased to ring. There was only a moment's pause, however, then the little space was filled with white-robed figures, and my sister's voluntary, unduly prolon

le church with the first words of the service. At the singing, which was always wretched, he frowned, and, catching a sideway glance from Lady Naselton, smi

oment or two of hushed suspense which precedes the giving out of the text, that t

tion of what was to come sent a strange thrill through all my nerves. "The wages of sin is death." No words could give any idea of the marvellous yet altogether effortless solemnity with which these words passed from my father's lips. Scarcely uttered above a whisper, they yet penetrated to the utmost corners of the little church. Was it really intense earnestness or a wonderful knowledge a

ild looked sideways to watch the dark ivy waving softly against the stained glass windows or wondered at the strange pattern which a ray of dying sunlight had traced upon the bare stone aisles. There was something personal-something like the cry of human sorrow itself in that slow, passionate outpouring. Was it by any chance a confession or an accusation to which we were listening? It was on the universality of sin of which my father spoke with such heart-moving emphasis. Our lives were like cupboards having many chambers, some of which were open indeed to the daylight and the gaze of all men, but there were others jealous

d. His terrible earnestness passed like an electric thrill into the hearts of all of us. Several women were crying softly; men sat there with bowed heads, face to face with ghosts long since buried. Bruce Deville was sitting back in his corner with folded arms and downcast head. Adelaide Fortress was looking steadfastly up towards that pale, inspired figure, with soft, wet eyes. Even the Bishop was deeply moved,

t attracted me was repeated. A low, faint moan, scarcely louder than a whisper, passed between his lips. He stood there supporting himself with his hands against the wall. His lined face was turned towards me, and, with a thrill of horror, I recognized him. I half rose from my seat. The man was either ill or dying. He seemed to be making frantic signs to me. I tried my utmost to signal to Mr.

le appeared against the background of the open door, was able to mark the full and terrible disorder of his person. And while I waited, numb with some namele

ands can stay; and Death rides his barque upon the rolling waves. You and I and every man and woman in this world whom sin has known-alas! that there should be so many-have looked into his marble face, have felt the touch of his piti

was like the foam of death frothed at his lips. He stood there, the focus of all horrified eyes, swaying to and fro as though on the eve of collapse, his arms outstretched, and his eyes flashing red fire upon the thin almost spectral-like figure of the preacher now leaning over towards him from the pulpit. The slight color forced into my father's cheeks by the physical effort of his impassioned oratory died away. To his very lips he was white as the surplice he wore. Yet he did not

u, Judas!

w Adelaide Fortress glide like a black wraith from her seat and fall on her knees by the fainting man's side. My father lifted up his arms, and with a deep, solemn tremor in his tone pronounced the Benediction. Then, with his surplice flying round him, he came swiftly down the aisle between the li

two, then they lifted him up and carried

le forgot that the Benediction had been pronounced, and were uncertain whether to go

t by my side for a moment.

who it was?"

ok my

It was a stran

shud

tein. I only caught a glimpse of his face for a mom

alf fainting. "Come out into the air," she whisp

a little group, came slowly over as though to check our further advance. His face was haggard and drawn. He s

re must have been an accident or a fight.

d have dragged himself up to the church in such a plight. On

wered, gravely, "he was

s right hand towards the

he may have foun