. One
despicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem, which I believe he must
have got from Strauss. I'm sure Strauss quotes it."

"You see what displeases an educated mind, wins a rough, uncultured one.
We may not altogether like it, but we must put up with it. We need our
Moodys and Sankeys as well as the Christians."

"But, father, he seems to me so unfair."

Raeburn looked grave.

"My dear," he said, after a minute's thought, "you are not in the least
bound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. But remember
this, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let me quote to you
one of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick out hawks' een.' You
are still a hawk, are you not?"

"Of course," she said, earnestly.

"Well, then be leal to your brother hawks."

A cloud of perplexed thought stole over Erica's face. Raeburn noted it
and did his best to divert her attention.

"Come," he said, "let us have a chapter of Mark Twain to enliven us."

But even Mark Twain was inadequate to check the thought-struggle which
had begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would not be conquered
even by the most delightful of all humorous fiction.

During the next few days this thought-struggle raged. So great was
Erica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that she
would not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or to Charles
Osmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her character seemed a
hindrance.

She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful, and an
immense amount of steady common sense. At the same time she was almost
as keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father. Honestly dreading
to allow her poetic faculty due play, she kept her imagination rigidly
within the narrowest bounds. She was thus honestly handicapped in the
race; the honesty was, however, a little mistaken and one-sided, for
not the most vivid imagination could be considered as a set-off to the
great, the incalculable counter-influence of her whole education and
surroundings. How she got through that black struggle was sometimes
a mystery to her. At last, one evening, when the load had grown
intolerable, she shut herself into her own room, and, forgetful of all
her logical arguments, spoke to the unknown God. Her hopelessness,
her desperation, drove her as a last resource to cry to the possibly
Existent.

She stood by the open window of her little room, with her arms on the
window s