his same Church
as the last word on science, philosophy, history, metaphysics, and
government."

"Stop!" cried Eleanor. "You make me dizzy."

"Nearly all the pioneers to whom we owe our age of comparative
enlightenment were heretics," George persisted. "And if they could have
been headed off, or burned, most of us would still be living in mud
caves at the foot of the cliff on which stood the nobleman's castle; and
kings would still be kings by divine decree, scientists--if there
were any--workers in the black art, and every phenomenon we failed to
understand, a miracle."

"I choose the United States of America," ejaculated Evelyn.

"I gather, George," said Phil Goodrich, "that you don't believe in
miracles."

"Miracles are becoming suspiciously fewer and fewer. Once, an eclipse of
the sun was enough to throw men on their knees because they thought it
supernatural. If they were logical they'd kneel today because it has
been found natural. Only the inexplicable phenomena are miracles; and
after a while--if the theologians will only permit us to finish the
job--there won't be any inexplicable phenomena. Mystery, as I believe
William James puts it may be called the more-to-be-known."

"In taking that attitude, George, aren't you limiting the power of God?"
said Mrs. Waring.

"How does it limit the power of God, mother," her son-in-law asked, "to
discover that he chooses to work by laws? The most suicidal tendency in
religious bodies today is their mediaeval insistence on what they are
pleased to call the supernatural. Which is the more marvellous--that God
can stop the earth and make the sun appear to stand still, or that he
can construct a universe of untold millions of suns with planets and
satellites, each moving in its orbit, according to law; a universe
wherein every atom is true to a sovereign conception? And yet this
marvel of marvels--that makes God in the twentieth century infinitely
greater than in the sixteenth--would never have been discovered if the
champions of theology had had their way."

Mrs. Waring smiled a little.

"You are too strong for me, George," she said, "but you mustn't expect
an old woman to change."

"Mother, dear," cried Eleanor, rising and laying her hand on Mrs.
Waring's cheek, "we don't want you to change. It's ourselves we wish to
change, we wish for a religious faith like yours, only the same teaching
which gave it to you is powerless for us. That's our trouble. We have
only