The Angel of His Presence by Grace Livingston Hill Page A

home. Of course they would be glad to have him back, all of them, but they had been happy enough without him, knowing he was happy. But in town, while he had friends, there were none whom he eagerly looke d forward to meeting. He had at tended school there, of course, and in later years, after his return from college, had gone into the society of the place, the literary club s and tennis clubs and, to a de gree, into church work.
    He had indeed been quite enthusiastic in church work at one time, had helped to start a mission Sunday school in a quarter where it was much needed, and had acted as superintendent up to the time when he went abroad. He smiled to himself as he thought of his "boyish enthusiasm," as he termed it, and turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood. Of course he would now have no time for such things. His work in the world was to be of a graver sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He was done with childish things.
    He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers . "I beg your pardon. I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like to shake hands with you."
    The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features and an earnest face. Mr. Stanley had noticed him casually several times and remarked to himself that that man would be quite fine looking if he would only pay a little more attention to his personal appearance. Not that he was not neatly dressed, nor that his handsome, wavy, iron-gray hair was not carefully brushed; but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet matters, and liked to see a man with his trousers creased or not creased, as the height of the mode might demand, and classed him, involuntarily, accordingly.
    But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed him. What possible business could this man have with him, and what had he done that should make the man want to shake hands with him?
    Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once threw away the end of his finished cigar and accepted the proffered hand graciously, with just a tinge of his foreign-acquired nonchalance.
    "My name is Manning. You don't know me. I came to live at Cliveden shortly after you went abroad, but I assure you, I have heard much of you and your good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, from your resemblance to your mother," the stranger added, looking into the young man's eyes with his own keen gray ones. He did not add that one thing which had kept him from recognizing his identity had been that he did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he had been led to expect.
    Mr. Mann ing owned to himself in the pri vacy of his stateroom afterward that he was just a little disappointed in the man, though he was handsome, and had a good face, but he did seem to be more of a man of the world than he had expected to find him. However, no trace of this was written in his kindly, interested face, as John Stanley endeavored to master the situation and discover what all this meant.
    "Oh, I know all about your work in Clive den, Mr. Stanley. I have been interested in the Forest Hill Mission from my first resi dence there, and what I did not learn for myself my little girl told me . She is a great worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me her confidant, so I hear all the stories of the trials and conflicts of her Sunday school class. Among other things I con stantly hear of this one and that one who owe their Christian experience to the ef forts of the founder of the mission and its first superintendent. Your crown will be rich in jewels. I shall never forget Joe Andrews' face when he told me the story of how you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said, 'Joe, aren't you ready to be a Christian yet?' and how time after time he would shake his head. He says your face would grow so sad." The elder gentleman looked closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to trace those lines which proved him to