it true?'

'My dear!--in every sense. How can you ask? It is part of the
Prayer-Book.'

'It is not part of my experience. Up to this time, my life and
conscience know nothing about it. Mother, the Bible gives certain marks
of the people whom it calls "disciples" and "Christians." I do not find
them in myself.'

Pitt lifted his head and looked at his mother as he spoke; a grave,
frank, most manly expression filling his face. Mrs. Dallas met the look
with one of intense worry and perplexity. 'What do you mean?' she said
helplessly; while a sudden shove of her husband's chair spoke for _his_
mood of mind, in its irritated restlessness. 'Marks?' she repeated.
'Christians are not _marked_ from other people.'

'As I read the Bible, it seems to me they must be.'

'I do not understand you,' she said shortly. 'I hope you will explain
yourself.'

'I owe it to you to answer,' the young man said thoughtfully; 'it is
better, perhaps, you should know where I am, that you may at least be
patient with me if I do not respond quite as you would wish to your
expectations. Mother, I have been studying this matter a great while;
but as to the preliminary question, whether I am already what the Bible
describes Christians to be, I have been under no delusion at all. The
marks are plain enough, and they are not in me.'

'What marks?'

'It is a personal matter,' Pitt went on a little unwillingly; 'it must
be fought through somehow in my own mind; but some things are plain
enough. Mother, the servants of Christ "follow" Him; it is the test of
their service; I never did, nor ever thought or cared what the words
meant. The children of God are known by the fact that they love Him and
keep his commandments. So the Bible says. I have not loved Him, and
have not asked about His commandments. I have always sought my own
pleasure. The heirs of the kingdom of heaven have chosen that world
instead of this; and between the two is just the choice I have yet to
make. That is precisely where I am.'

'But, my dear Pitt,' said Mrs. Dallas, while her husband kept an
ominous silence, 'you have always led a most blameless life. I think
you judge yourself too hardly. You have been a good son, always!' and
her eyes filled, partly with affection and partly with chagrin. To what
was all this tending? 'You have _always_ been a good son,' she repeated.

'To you, mother. Yes, I hope so.'

'And, my dear, you were confirmed. What did that mean?'

'It meant