ark. But why talk about priests and the priesthood? You
are not a Catholic?"

"I don't know," said Mark. "The difference between us religiously,
Monsignore, is that I was and am not; you were not and behold you are."

Father Murray looked interested.

"Yes, yes," he said; "I am a convert. It was long ago, though. I was
a young Presbyterian minister, and it's odd how it came about. Newman
didn't get me, though he shook his own tree into the Pope's lap; I
wasn't on the tree. It was Brownson--a Presbyterian like myself--who
did the business. You don't know him? Pity! He's worth knowing. I
got to reading him, and he made it so plain that I had to drop. I
didn't want to, either--but here I am. Now, Mr. Griffin, how did you
happen to go the other way?"

"I didn't go--that is, not deliberately. I just drifted. Mother died,
and father didn't care, in fact rather opposed; so I just didn't last.
Later on, I studied the church and I could not see."

"Studied the church? You mean the Catholic Church?" Father Murray's
mouth hid the ghost of a smile.

"No, it wasn't the Catholic Church in particular. When we worldlings
say 'the church,' we mean religion in general, perhaps all Christianity
in general and all Christians in particular."

"I know." The priest's voice held a touch of sorrow now. "I hope you
will pardon me, Mr. Griffin, if I say one thing that may sound
controversial--it's just an observation. I have noticed the tendency
you speak of; but isn't it strange that when people go looking into the
question of religion they can deliberately close their eyes to a 'City
set upon a Mountain'?"

"I don't quite--"

"Get me?" Father Murray laughed. "I know that you wanted to use that
particular expressive bit of our particularly expressive slang. What I
mean is this: People study religion nowadays--that is, English-speaking
people--with the Catholic Church left out. Yet she claims the
allegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her,
Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her
foundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She has
the achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has
borne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day
she is loved, too--loved better than anything else on earth. She has
hugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shame
that she might save them, because she is a