't like us. Unless he has
changed more than I know, there is a big chunk of the go-to-meeting
young man left in him; you never know when you may bump up against some
of his religious principles. You remember that he used to go to church
with as much pleasure as an ordinary chap goes to a music-hall. In fact,
he did the thing as easily as take his dinner."

"Yes, yes; but he is getting over those narrow-minded country ways."

"Perhaps you are right. You don't find much of that antiquated religious
nonsense among us gentlemen of the Press--hem, hem!--Henry's is the only
case of the kind that I have seen. But there is hope for him yet," and
Edgar laughed heartily at his own wit, while Flo rewarded him with a
smile as she pushed home the one point she wished to make.

"Then you think you may be able to induce him to spend Sunday with us?"

"I'll do my best. Can't say more. Usual dinner hour, I suppose?"

"Two o'clock. That gives him time for forenoon church--if he really must
go."

Much to Edgar's surprise, and more to his satisfaction, the editor of
the _Leader_ consented with unusual readiness to honour the Wintons the
following Sunday, and when the day came Henry was not at the forenoon
service. He was not even annoyed at himself for having lain abed too
long. His mind was filled with thoughts of the importance he had
suddenly assumed in the eyes of many who had previously seemed unaware
of his existence. Even the church folk, among whom he had moved for
years almost unfriended, were now curiously interested in him, and the
vicar had done him the remarkable honour of inviting him to dinner to
meet several gentlemen prominent in the religious and social life of the
city, an invitation which it had given Henry a malicious pleasure to
refuse, as the memory of his cold entrances and exits through the door
of Holy Trinity contrasted frigidly with this unfamiliar friendliness.

Yet the vicar was a good man, and the church folk were in the main good
people too. Henry's experience was no unusual one, nor unnatural. It was
but the outcome of that pride of youth which, while one is hungry for
friendship, restrains one from any show of a desire to make friends. He
was not the first nor the last young man who coming from a small town or
village where the church life has an intimate social side, expects
something of the same in the larger communion of the city, and is
chilled by what seems frosty indifference. The fault, howeve