the seller of songs (vocally illustrated), the gentleman in drink, and the lady in a passion. But why have I had to endure the unspeakable conversation of certain persons who shall be nameless, and who, I feel sure, did not mean to be objectionable, but were? And, in its usual parrot-fashion, echo answers, "Why?"

PROLOGUE

"I AM tired of preaching to silks and satins," I said;

rags and tatters would be a welcome change."

The Bishop lifted grave, kind eyes, in which lurked

more than a suspicion of amusement.

"I see. The conventionality of civilised society palls on you; you want something more"

"Real!" I cried with conviction. The word gave me a feeling of bodily and mental vigour such as I had not known for many a long month. "Real! That's it. I want to get at the foundation of things, to see human nature without its paint and gew-gaws; I want to face up to it, understand it, learn my lesson from it."

Looking back over the seven years that have passed since these words were uttered, it seems to me that I was very young then; and it also seems to me, as I write, that I am quite old now. For, if experience ages us, then twenty years have passed since that memorable day on which I sat in a dim little study in the heart of the City, and gazed on the scholarly face of George Forrest Browne, Bishop of Stepney.

The suspicion of amusement in the Bishop's eyes

deepened. He paused awhile, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he said, with the peculiar force and directness so characteristic of him

"You want an unconventional sphere of labour; you can have it. You want to see human nature in its primitive condition; your wish can be gratified. At this very moment I need a man for pioneering missionary work. It will be rough; it will be hard; it will be discouraging. There is no house to live in; there is no church to worship in; there is no endowment, or fund, or anything of that kind to draw upon for working expenses. I think I can secure you a stipend of £150 a year, and I know I can put my hand on money for building purposes. Well?"

I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. The study suddenly grew gloomy, the air chilly. The Bishop spoke again—

"Of course, you know the Isle of Dogs?"

Yes. At least, I had heard of the Isle of Dogs. To tell truth, a vision of flannels, a light outrigger, broiling summer sun, and a purling stream emerged from somewhere at the back of my mind, recalling halcyon days of another period.

"Yes, I may say I know it," I continued eagerly. Up river? Twickenham way?"

Back went the Bishop's head, as that lurking suspicion of a smile broke at last into audible laughter.

"Oh dear, no! Miles away from Twickenham and all that Twickenham means. Nothing so attractive, I

assure you. Limehouse! Millwall! That's much nearer the mark."

I sat still. It was rather sudden. "Limehouse" conjured up a picture of an impure stream bounded by dirty streets; "Millwall" suggested river mud and long levels of decaying vegetation. The Twickenham picture was blotted out.

"Well?" The Bishop looked at me keenly.

"I'll go."

At that moment I was conscious of something like a call. I realised that this thing had come to me uninvited, unexpected. I wanted work; work presented itself. Not, it is true, in the way I had anticipated, but perhaps in a far better way. Another Will than mine seemed to be in the business.

"Yes, I'll go," I repeated with conviction.

"Perhaps you would like to think it over?"

"No. Thank you-but, No. My resolution is taken. God helping me, I'll do what I can."

Two minutes later I was in St. Paul's Churchyard, looking up at the dome in a dazed way, and vaguely conscious that I had entered upon a new phase of my life. A sense of elation, hard to define, filled me to overflowing. I was sensible of the pressure of the Bishop's hand closing over mine in a farewell grip; I was sensible of still another pressure, less tangible, even more real, that seemed to be driving me into new activities.