He stood in the packed building, a small lonely figure, pathetic in the isolation that shut him off from the warm humanity of the watching crowd.

He felt weak, ill, but he struggled to bear himself bravely.  He could not move his eyes from the stern white face that seemed to fill all the space in front of him.  About that cold minatory figure, which was speaking to him in such passionless even tones, clung an atmosphere of awe; the traditional robes of office lent it a majesty that crushed his will.

He knew he was being addressed, and he strove to listen.  His brain was a torrent of thoughts.  And so his life had come to this.  It was indeed the final catastrophe.  That was surely what the voice meant—­that voice which went on and on in an even stream of sound without meaning.  Why had he come to this—­in the flower of his life to lose its chiefest gift, Liberty?

Up and down the spaces of his brain thought sped like fire.  The people behind—­did they care?  A few perhaps pitied him.  The others were indifferent.  To them it was merely a spectacle.

Suddenly into his mind crept the consciousness of a vast silence.  The voice had stopped.  The abrupt cessation of sound whipped his quivering nerves.  It was like the holding of a great breath.

He gathered his forces.  He knew that the huge concourse waited.  A question had been put to him.  It seemed as if the world stood still to listen.

He moistened his lips.  He knew what he had meant to say, but his tongue was a traitor to his desire.  What use now to plead?  The soundlessness grew intolerable.  He thought he should cry aloud.

And then—­

“I will,” he said, and, looking sideways, caught the swift shy glance of his bride.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The Master Plumber.  “I’VE NEVER SEED A BLOKE TAKE SO LONG OVER A JOB IN ALL ME LIFE.  THAT LAD’LL GO FAR.”]

* * * * *

=NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.=

  THE SPONGE.

  The sponge is not, as you suppose,
  A funny kind of weed;
  He lives below the deep blue sea,
  An animal, like you and me,
  Though not so good a breed.

  And when the sponges go to sleep
  The fearless diver dives;
  He prongs them with a cruel prong,
  And, what I think is rather wrong,
  He also prongs their wives.

  For I expect they love their wives
  And sing them little songs,
  And though, of course, they have no heart
  It hurts them when they’re forced to part—­
  Especially with prongs.

  I know you’d rather not believe
  Such dreadful things are done;
  Alas, alas, it is the case;
  And every time you wash your face
  You use a skeleton.

  And that round hole in which you put
  Your finger and your thumb,
  And tear the nice new sponge in two,
  As I have told you not to do,
  Was once his osculum.