s it, Miss Wynrod? He's a personal friend of
yours, and you know already what I think of church--yet you want my
opinion of both."

"No--not both; just the man."

Good shook his head. "I doubt if they can be separated," he said
dubiously.

"Well, we'll worry about that later. It's settled that you'll come?"

"Of course, but--"

"Thank you. I'll be ready in a minute."

All the way to the church Good protested that she was taking an unfair
advantage of him. But Judith refused to heed his protests.

They paused for a moment on the low rise overlooking the church, to
survey it. Judith was very fond of its weathered grey stones, almost
buried in the luxuriant ivy. She had been christened and confirmed in
it, and the stained glass windows at opposite ends of the
transept--masterpieces they were, too--were gifts of hers, in memory of
her long-dead father and mother. It was an exquisite little edifice, a
genuine bit of Tudor, without a particle of "adaptation," looking as if
it had been transplanted bodily from some English vale, together with
the soil upon which it stood, and the well trimmed trees which
surrounded it. She felt a little catch in her throat, as the memories
clustered before her.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Good slowly. "It's pretty...."

She did not like the hesitant qualification implied in his tone.

"Is there a reservation?"

"Well,"--he cocked his head on one side, and knitted his brows. "Yes.
It's too beautiful. It's beauty in the wrong place. The people out here
have beauty enough without it. I'd like it better if it was in the
city--in the heart of the city--with its trees and its vines and its
grass. It's needed more there." Then he laughed. "Oh, Miss Wynrod, you
must be careful what you ask me. I'm a queer fellow. Most of the things
you think are all right, I think are all wrong. You'd have to have lived
my life to see things the way I see them."

She was vaguely disappointed and hurt, and she made no attempt to reply.
Every now and then he did bewilder her by flights of thought which she
found herself incapable of following. Usually she tried to argue, but
the little church was too intimate a thing for that. She said nothing,
and silently they went on into it.

She had timed their arrival carefully so as to get there just before the
sermon, and unobtrusively they slipped into one of the side pews in the
rear. But the building was so small that they had a very good view of
the