tion, by an indifferent Creator, in a
wilderness, and left to find our way out as best we can. You answer that
Christ showed us the way. There are elements in his teaching I cannot
accept--perhaps because I have been given a wrong interpretation of them.
I shall ask you more questions some day.

"But even then," she continued, "granted that Christ brought the complete
solution, as you say, why should so many millions have lived and died,
before and after his coming, who had suffered so, and who had never heard
of him? That is the way my reason works, and I can't help it. I would
help it if I could."

"Isn't it enough," he asked, "to know that a force is at work combating
evil,--even if you are not yet convinced that it is a prevailing force?
Can you not trust that it will be a prevailing force, if your sympathies
are with it, without demanding a revelation of the entire scheme of the
universe? Of what use is it to doubt the eternal justice?"

"Oh, use!" she cried, "I grant you its uselessness. Doubt seems an
ingrained quality. I can't help being a fatalist."

"And yet you have taken your life in your own hands," he reminded her,
gently.

"Only to be convinced of its futility," she replied.

Again, momentarily thrust back into himself, he wondered jealously once
more what the disillusionments had been of that experience from before
which she seemed, at times, ready to draw back a little the veil.

"A sense of futility is a sense of incompleteness," he said, "and
generally precedes a sense of power."

"Ah, you have gained that! Yet it must always have been latent in you
--you make one feel it. But now!" she exclaimed, as though the discovery
had just dawned on her, "now you will need power, now you will have to
fight as you have never fought in your life."

He found her enthusiasm as difficult to withstand as her stoicism.

"Yes, I shall have to fight," he admitted. Her partisanship was sweet.

"When you tell them what you have told me," she continued, as though
working it out in her own mind, "they will never submit to it, if they
can help it. My father will never submit to it. They will try to put
you out, as a heretic,--won't they?"

"I have an idea that they will," he conceded, with a smile.

"And won't they succeed? Haven't they the power?"

"It depends,--in the first place, on whether the bishop thinks me a
heretic."

"Have you asked him?"

"No."

"But can't they make you resign?"

"They can d