grieving for you; and for you," turning to the men, "from the Master, whose wrath is upon those who jeer at the unfortunate!"

"He is a looney straight from Bedlam!" said one of the men.

"I am not mad," said the stranger simply; and across Meg's mind flashed St. Paul's answer, "I am not mad, most noble Festus!"

This man reminded her of an apostle, but not of St. Paul—rather, perhaps, of St. Peter.

There was an unmistakably "out-of-door" look about him, and he walked with an even springy tread, like one to whom exercise is a joy.

He was about thirty years of age, burnt with sun and air. His deep set blue eyes had an intent expression in them, his mouth was partly hidden by his curly fair beard.

He clasped his hands, holding them straight in front of him, the sinews of his wrists standing out like cord. A few idlers lounged within hearing, ready for any free entertainment, religious or otherwise.

Margaret stood still and listened. He spoke at first jerkily, with long pauses between each sentence, and with an anxious strained look in his eyes as if he were waiting for inspiration.

"The Lord has sent me to speak to you. His hand leads me—from one place to another—to call the souls He died for to Him. I am unworthy, I cannot speak as I would—my words halt."

"Cheer up, old man," called out a dissipated youth irreverently; and the crowd giggled. Meg, standing on the outskirts, felt a pang of pity; she had a painful sympathy with any one who was laughed at, but apparently the touch of mockery inspired rather than depressed him. He fixed his blue eyes suddenly on the youth, who reddened and slunk back. "Ay, ay—it's to you the Lord is calling," he cried. "Speak, Lord! Speak through my lips that this soul may hear! He is crying aloud—turn—turn from the path of destruction. He stands in the way to stop you! His arms are spread out wide—His feet are bleeding. The pain of the nails crushing through them was sweeter to Him than the smoothness of the Courts of Heaven. Among His many mansions His soul is still in pain for the children created of His Father. He rests not day or night till He has drawn them to Him. Behold the hunger for souls is upon me—even upon me—and what I feel is His Spirit moving in me. Come—ye who are weary. He had not where to lay His head. Come—ye who weep—for the Man of Sorrows has tasted the cup of bitterness and He 

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