It was the last day of Glory's probation, and, dressed in the long blue ulster in which she came from the Isle of Man, she was standing in the matron's room waiting for her wages and discharge. The matron was sitting sideways at her table, with her dog snarling in her lap. She pointed to a tiny heap of gold and silver and to a foolscap paper which lay beside it.

“That is your month's salary, nurse, and this is your 'character.' The 'character' has given me a deal of trouble. I have done all I could for you. I have said you were bright and cheerful, and that the patients liked you. I trust I have not committed myself too far.”

Glory gathered up the money, but left the “character” untouched.

“You need not be anxious, ma'am; I shall not require it.”

“Have you got a situation?”

“No.”

“Then where are you going next?”

“I don't know—yet.”

“How much money have you saved?”

“About three months' wages.”

“Only three pounds altogether!”

“It will be quite sufficient.”

“What friends have you got in London?”

“None—that is to say—no, none whatever.”

“Then why don't you go back to your island?”

“Because I don't wish to be a burden upon my people, and because earning my living in London doesn't depend on the will or the whim of any woman.”

“That's just like you. I might have dismissed you instantly, but for the sake of the chaplain I've borne with your rudeness and irregularities, and even tried to be your friend, and yet—— I dare say you've not even told your people why you are leaving the hospital?”

“I haven't—I haven't told them yet that I'm leaving at all.”

“Then I've a great mind to do it for you. A venturesome, headstrong girl who flings herself on London is in danger of ruin.”

“You needn't trouble yourself, ma'am,” said Glory, opening the door to go.

“Why so?” said the matron.

Glory stood at her full height and answered:

“Because if you said that of me there is nobody in the world would believe you!”

Her box had been brought down to the hall, and the porter, who wished to be friendly, was cording it.

“May I leave it in your care, porter, until I am able to call for it?”

“Certingly, nurse. Sorry you're goin'. I'll miss your face, too.”

“Thank you. I'll call for my letters also.”

“There's one just come.”

It was from Aunt Anna, and was full of severe reproof and admonition. Glory was not to think of leaving the hospital; she must try to be content with the condition to which God had called her. But why had her letters been so few of late? and how did it occur that she had never told them about Mr. Storm? He had gone for good into that strange Brotherhood, it seemed. Not Catholic, and yet a monastery. Most extraordinary! They were all eagerly waiting to hear more about it. Besides, the grandfather was anxious on Glory's account. If half they heard was true, the dangers of London——

The house-surgeon came down to say good-bye. He had always been as free and friendly as Sister Allworthy would allow. They stood a moment at the door together.

“Where are you going to?” he asked.

“Anywhere—nowhere—everywhere; to 'all the airts the wind can blaw.'”

It was a clear, bright morning, with a light, keen frost. On looking out, Glory saw that flags were flying on the public buildings.

“Why, what's going on?” she said.

“Don't you know? It's the ninth of November—Lord Mayor's Day.”

She laughed merrily. “A good omen. I'm the female Dick Whittington! Here goes for it! Good-bye, hospital nursing.—By-bye, doctor.”

She dropped him a playful curtsy at the bottom of the steps, and then tripped along the street.

“What a girl it is!” he thought. “And what is to become of her in this merciless old London?”

She had taken less than a score of steps from the hospital when blinding teardrops leaped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks; but she only dropped her veil and walked on boldly.