ls which
she did not in reality see; nor did she see the look of agonised prayer
that came and went across the habitual reserve of his face.

"Can't you believe what I say, Bart? I say that I will give up dancing
and selling beer, and sign the pledge, and dress plain, and go to
church. I say I will do it and Christa will do it; and you can teach us
all you've a mind to, day in and day out, and we'll learn if we can.
Isn't it far better to save Christa and me--two souls, than to hunt one
poor man to death? Don't you believe that I'll do what I promise? I'll
go right home now and give it to you in writing, if you like."

"I do believe you, Ann." He stopped to regain the steadiness of his
voice. He had had training in forcing his voice in the last few months,
for he hated to bear verbal testimony to his religious beliefs, and yet
he had taught himself to do it. He succeeded in speaking steadily now,
in the same strong voice in which he had learnt to pray at meetings. It
was not exactly his natural voice. It sounded sanctimonious and
ostentatious, but that was because he was forced to conceal that his
heart within him was quaking. "I do believe that you would do what you
say, Ann; but it isn't right to do evil that good may come."

He did not appeal to her pity; he did not try to tell her what it cost
him to refuse. If he could have made her understand that, she might have
been turned from her purpose. He realised only the awful weakness and
wickedness of his heart. He seemed to see those appetites which, up to a
few months before, had possessed him like demons, hovering near him in
the air, and he seemed to see God holding them back from him, but only
for so long as he resisted this temptation.

To her he said aloud: "I cannot do it, Ann. In God's strength I cannot
and will not do it."

Within his heart he seemed to be shouting aloud to Heaven: "My God, I
will not do it, I will not do it. Oh, my God!" He turned his back upon
her and went quickly to the village, only looking to see that at some
distance she followed him, trudging humbly as a squaw walks behind her
Indian, as far as her own door.

CHAPTER VI.

When one drops one's plummet into life anywhere it falls the whole
length of the line we give it. The man who can give his plummet the
longest line is he who realises most surely that it has not touched the
bottom.

Bart Toyner betook himself to prayer. He had learned from his friend the
preacher that