What calmness came to her with his touch he did not dream. How precious in her heart she held the memory of that little journey to the outer air, he could not by any possible chance conceive.
At the street corner she left them. She did not look again at the rector. But she turned pleading eyes on Barry.
"You'll come and tell me," she implored, "what happens?"
"I'll come," said Barry, "if I get away alive."
He smiled at her, lifted his hat, and then joined the rector who was already hurrying on his way. The morning was not cold, but it was raw and misty, and the air had in it an indescribable chill. The two men walked rapidly and in silence. Shivering workmen, with despondent faces, looked at them as they passed, and some lifted their caps awkwardly from tousled heads in recognition. It was no unusual sight to see the rector and Barry on the street together in these days, and no one commented on their appearance now. The men had no grievance against Barry. He had doubtless done what he could for them, but they knew him to be absolutely helpless, and they saw no possible gleam of hope in his direction. As for the rector, he was of course a friend to labor. He had proved that to them abundantly. But they no longer looked to him to lead them up out of slavery. As Steve Lamar said, he had lost his grip, if he had ever had one. Every effort of his on their behalf had been utterly useless, if indeed he had not, by these very efforts, plunged them into still deeper servitude. He had preached the religion of Christ to those in high places and it had availed nothing. He had preached it to men ground down by capital and suffering from hunger, and it had not served to right a single wrong, or relieve a single pang of distress. What they wanted was a religion that would not only affirm their rights, but would in fact obtain them. What they wanted
