sence of something new. It was as if each had
said to him: "We love you, but you are not in our secrets--and you must
not be, for you would try to destroy them." They showed no fear of him,
but seemed to be pushing him unconsciously away, lest he should restrain
or alter what was very dear to them. They were both fond of him, but
their natures had set foot on definitely diverging paths. The closer
the affection, the more watchful they were against interference by that
affection. Noel had a look on her face, half dazed, half proud,
which touched, yet vexed him. What had he done to forfeit her
confidence--surely she must see how natural and right his opposition
had been! He made one great effort to show the real sympathy he felt for
her. But she only said: "I can't talk of Cyril, Daddy; I simply can't!"
And he, who easily shrank into his shell, could not but acquiesce in her
reserve.

With Gratian it was different. He knew that an encounter was before him;
a struggle between him and her husband--for characteristically he set
the change in her, the defection of her faith, down to George, not to
spontaneous thought and feeling in herself. He dreaded and yet looked
forward to this encounter. It came on the third day, when Laird was up,
lying on that very sofa where Pierson had sat listening to Gratian's
confession of disbelief. Except for putting in his head to say good
morning, he had not yet seen his son-in-law: The young doctor could
not look fragile, the build of his face, with that law and those heavy
cheekbones was too much against it, but there was about him enough of
the look of having come through a hard fight to give Pierson's heart a
squeeze.

"Well, George," he said, "you gave us a dreadful fright! I thank God's
mercy." With that half-mechanical phrase he had flung an unconscious
challenge. Laird looked up whimsically.

"So you really think God merciful, sir?"

"Don't let us argue, George; you're not strong enough."

"Oh! I'm pining for something to bite on."

Pierson looked at Gratian, and said softly:

"God's mercy is infinite, and you know it is."

Laird also looked at Gratian, before he answered:

"God's mercy is surely the amount of mercy man has succeeded in arriving
at. How much that is, this war tells you, sir."

Pierson flushed. "I don't follow you," he said painfully. "How can you
say such things, when you yourself are only just--No; I refuse to argue,
George; I refuse."

Laird stretched o