se people into the church and influencing them as you did
when they had come for all sorts of reasons. Do you remember, the first
time I met you, I told you I could not think of you as a clergyman. I
cannot now--less than ever."

"What do you think of me as?" he asked.

"I don't know," she considered. "You are unlike any person I have ever
known. It is curious that I cannot now even think of St. John's as
a church. You have transformed it into something that seems new. I'm
afraid I can't describe what I mean, but you have opened it up, let in
the fresh air, rid it of the musty and deadening atmosphere which I
have always associated with churches. I wanted to see you, before I went
away," she went on steadily, "and when Eleanor mentioned that you were
coming to her house to-night, I asked her to invite me. Do you think me
shameless?"

The emphasis of his gesture was sufficient. He could not trust himself
to speak.

"Writing seemed so unsatisfactory, after what you had done for me, and I
never can express myself in writing. I seem to congeal."

"After what I have done for you!" he exclaimed: "What can I have done?"

"You have done more than you know," she answered, in a low voice. "More,
I think, than I know. How are such things to be measured, put into
words? You have effected some change in me which defies analysis, a
change of attitude,--to attempt to dogmatize it would ruin it. I prefer
to leave it undefined--not even to call it an acquisition of faith. I
have faith," she said, simply, "in what you have become, and which has
made you dare, superbly, to cast everything away... It is that, more
than anything you have said. What you are."

For the instant he lost control of himself.

"What you are," he replied. "Do you realize--can you ever realize what
your faith in me has been to me?"

She appeared to ignore this.

"I did not mean to say that you have not made many things clear, which
once were obscure, as I wrote you. You have convinced me that true
belief, for instance, is the hardest thing in the world, the denial of
practically all these people, who profess to believe, represent. The
majority of them insist that humanity is not to be trusted..."

They had reached, in an incredibly brief time, the corner of Park
Street.

"When are you leaving?" he asked, in a voice that sounded harsh in his
own ears.

"Come!" she said gently, "I'm not going in yet, for a while."

The Park lay before them, an empty,