ould live.
Now he was entitled to the serenity of a holy man's reward.

It was near to sunset when the husband left the room and the eyes of
Conscience kindled for the first time out of their lethargic quiet.
Abruptly she rose from her seat and rebelliously demanded of the young
minister, "What would you say if I should confess to you that just one
thing has been clear and outstanding through all the confusion of my
thoughts since this morning? I've been unspeakably sullen."

"I should say," he responded quietly, "that it is a guise which grief
often assumes."

"No," she protested, disdaining the cajolery of self-delusion, "my
sullenness isn't that sort. It's pure rebellion. I've been thinking of
the abysmal failure of those who dedicate themselves most wholly. _His_
devotion to righteousness was implacably sincere and severe. It was the
doctrine of the hair-shirt. He scorned to ride any wave ... he had to
buffet every one head on ... until he battered out his life and wrecked
himself."

"A man must serve as he reads his command," her companion reminded her.
"He has done his work as he conceived it."

"And yet--" she looked into his face with a deep questioning which held
no note of accusation--"if anything that you said to-day is true, his
whole effort was not only wasted but perverted, and it was true. It was
so terribly true that it killed him!"

"What do you mean?" Haymond's gaze searched her eyes with incredulous
amazement. It seemed to be making an effort to steady her against the
wild utterances of hysteria, but her response was convincingly calm.

"I mean just that. I myself had nothing in common with his views. To me
they seemed narrow--pitifully narrow and uncomprehending--and he was my
father. We were warned that in any sudden gust of anger his feeble life
spark--would go out, so I put my own conceptions of what counted behind
me and tried to shield him." Sam Haymond hardly heard the last words. He
could realize only the dazing and crushing import of his own unwilling
instrumentality. At last he inquired slowly, "You mean that my
sermon--that the things I said--" There he broke off and the distress in
his eyes was so poignantly genuine that Conscience replied softly, "No,
it wasn't you. It was Fate, I guess. Even I can't blame you. It only
proves that the thing I warped my own life to prevent was
inevitable--that's all."

For a little while the minister stood silent and across his face passed
a succ