oblest within him.

War against war!

The thing had become a passion with him. Here was the great work
which, unknown to himself, he had all along wanted. Even when he had
dreamed of becoming an Oxford Don, and of spending his life in a kind
of cultured seclusion, there had always been something wanting. He had
fighting blood in his veins; the old fire for which the Trelawneys had
been famous had constantly made its appeal. And now Nancy had shown
him how his life could be a positive one. Now he could be true to the
principles which he had inherited from his father, and to which he held
with strong tenacity, and at the same time satisfy his desires to
participate in the struggles and battles of the great world.

"A noble cause demands your zeal!"

He found himself humming the words as he turned on the lights. And he
had a noble cause, the noblest, the most Christlike on earth. Warfare!
Yes, in spite of his peace principles he loved warfare. Man was a
fighting animal, and he was a man, every inch of him. And he was
called on to fight--to fight the War-god which had lifted its head so
arrogantly and brutally. But his warfare was to be for peace--the
peace of the world. It was to be for man's salvation, and not for his
destruction. Not for pillage, carnage, cruelty, mad hatred,
overwhelming ambition, lust for blood; but brotherhood, kindliness,
love, mercy. This was the battle of the Lord; this was the cause of
Christ.

In this way he could be true to his father's teaching, true to the
Christianity in which he believed; but more, he could by this means
make himself worthy of Nancy, and make a place in the world, in which
even her father would rejoice.

His heart beat with wild joy. Even now Nancy's kisses were warm on his
lips, her words of love rang in his ears.

Yes, his plan of life was plain, his work arose before him, alluring,
ennobling, inspiring. And Nancy loved him! What more could he desire?

He looked around the room with a long tremulous sigh of contentment.
Life was indeed beautiful, glorious. Around him were thousands of
books. His father had been an omnivorous reader, and had amassed a
large library. Nearly every inch of wall-space was covered with
book-shelves. Only one space, above the mantelpiece, was uncovered,
and there hung what was even dearer than the books. It was an oil
painting of his father.

Robert Nancarrow looked at it long and steadily, and as he did so his
ey