With the entry of Angela’s great picture “The Coming of Christ” into London, where it became at once the centre of admiration, contention and general discussion, one of the most singular “religious” marriage ceremonies ever known, took place in a dreary out-lying district of the metropolis, where none but the poorest of the poor dwell, working from dawn till night for the merest pittance which scarcely pays them for food and lodging.  It was one of Aubrey Leigh’s “centres,” and to serve his needs for a church he had purchased a large wooden structure previously used for the storing of damaged mechanical appliances, such as worn-out locomotives, old railway carriages, and every kind of lumber that could possibly accumulate anywhere in a dock or an engine yard.  The building held from three to four thousand people closely packed, and when Leigh had secured it for his own, he was as jubilant over his possession as if the whole continent of Europe had subscribed to build him a cathedral.  He had the roof mended and made rainproof, and the ground planked over to make a decent flooring,—­then he had it painted inside a dark oak colour, and furnished it with rows of benches.  At the upper end a raised platform was erected, and in the centre of that platform stood a simple Cross of roughly carved dark wood, some twelve or fifteen feet in height.  There was no other adornment in the building,—­the walls remained bare, the floor unmatted, the seats uncushioned.  No subscriptions were asked for its maintenance; no collection plate was ever sent around, yet here, whenever Leigh announced a coming “Address,” so vast a crowd assembled that it was impossible to find room for all who sought admittance.  And here, on one cold frosty Sunday morning, with the sun shining brightly through the little panes of common glass which had been inserted to serve as windows, he walked through a densely packed and expectant throng of poor, ill-clad, work-worn, yet evidently earnest and reverent men and women, leading his fair wife Sylvie, clad in bridal white, by the hand, up to the platform, and there stood facing the crowd.  He was followed by Cardinal Bonpre and—­Manuel.  The Cardinal wore no outward sign of his ecclesiastical dignity,—­he was simply attired in an ordinary priest’s surtout, and his tall dignified figure, his fine thoughtful face and his reverend age, won for him silent looks of admiration and respect from many who knew nothing of him or of the Church to which he belonged, but simply looked upon him as a friend of their idolized teacher, Aubrey Leigh.  Manuel passed through the crowd almost unnoticed, and it was only when he stood near the Cross, looking down upon the upturned thousands of faces, that a few remarked his presence.  The people had assembled in full force on this occasion, an invitation having gone forth in Leigh’s name asking them “to be witnesses of his marriage,” and the excitement was intense, as Sylvie, veiled as a bride, obeyed the gentle signal