ture, "Repentance." In it he unfolded a new
passionate creed which produced the effect of an electric shock.
Newspapers reported it, editorials discussed it, articles were written
upon it in monthly magazines. "Repentance is too late," was the note his
deepest fervour struck with virile, almost terrible, intensity. "Repent
before your wrong is done."

"Repentance comes too late," he cried. "We say a man saves his soul by
it--_his_ soul! We are a base, cowardly lot. Our own souls are
saved--yes! And we hug ourselves and are comforted. But what of the thing
we have hurt--for no man ever lost his soul unless he lost it by the
wound he gave another--by inflicting in some other an agony? What of the
one who has suffered--who has wept blood? I repent and save _myself_; but
repentance cannot undo. The torture has been endured--the tears of blood
shed. It is not to God I must kneel and pray for pardon, but to that one
whose helplessness I slew, and, though he grant it me, he still has been
slain."

The people who sat before him stirred in their seats; some leaned
forward, breathing quickly. There were those who turned pale; here and
there a man bent his head and a woman choked back a sob, or sat
motionless with streaming eyes. "Repentance is too late--except for him
who buys hope and peace with it. A lifetime of it cannot _undo_." The old
comfortable convention seemed to cease to be supporting. It seemed to
cease to be true that one may wound and crush and kill, and then be
admirable in escaping by smug repentance. It seemed to cease to be true
that humanity need count only with an abstract, far-off Deity Who can
easily afford to pardon--that one of his poor myriads has been done to
death. It was all new--strange--direct--and each word fell like a blow
from a hammer, because a strong, dramatic, reasoning creature spoke from
the depths of his own life and soul. In him Humanity rose up an awful
reality, which must itself be counted with--not because it could punish
and revenge, but because the laws of nature cried aloud as a murdered
man's blood cries from the ground.

As Baird crossed the pavement to reach his cab, the first night he
delivered this lecture, a man he knew but slightly stepped to his side
and spoke to him.

"Mr. Baird," he said, "will you drive me to the station?"

Baird turned and looked at him in some surprise. There were cabs enough
within hailing distance. The man was well known as a journalist, rather
c