his underclothes,
as well as these two specimens of human documents--were now keeping
his lively interest in life unimpaired.

"Loss of faith," he said to Palla, and inclined toward further debate,
"must be a very serious thing for any woman, I imagine."

"I haven't lost faith in love," she said, smilingly aware that he was
encouraging discussion.

"But you say you have lost faith in spiritual love--"

"I did not say so. I did not mean the other kind of love when I said
that love is sufficient religion for me."

"But spiritual love means Deity----"

"It does _not_! Can you imagine the all-powerful father watching his
child die, horribly--and never lifting a finger! Is that love? Is that
power? _Is_ that Deity?"

"To penetrate the Divine mind and its motives for not intervening is
impossible for us----"

"That is priest's prattle! Also, I care nothing now about Divine
motives. Motives are human, not divine. So is policy. That is why the
present Pope is unworthy of respect. He let his flock die. He deserted
his Cardinal. He let the hun go unrebuked. He betrayed Christ. I care
nothing about any mind weak enough, politic enough, powerless enough,
to ignore love for motives!

"One loves, or one does not love. Loving is giving--" The girl sat up
in the sleigh and the thickening snowflakes drove into her flushed
face. "Loving is giving," she repeated, "--giving life to love; giving
_up_ life for love--giving! _giving!_ always giving!--always
forgiving! That is love! That is the only God!--the indestructible,
divine God within each one of us!"

Brisson appraised her with keen and scholarly eyes. "Yet," he said
pleasantly, "you do not forgive God for the death of your friend.
Don't you practise your faith?"

The girl seemed nonplussed; then a brighter tint stained her cheeks
under the ragged sheepskin cap.

"Forgive God!" she cried. "If there really existed that sort of God,
what would be the use of forgiving what He does? He'd only do it
again. That is His record!" she added fiercely, "--indifference to
human agony, utter silence amid lamentations, stone deaf, stone dumb,
motionless. It is not in me to fawn and lick the feet of such an
image. No! It is not in me to believe it alive, either. And I do not!
But I know that love lives: and if there be any gods at all, it must
be that they are without number, and that their substance is of that
immortality born inside us, and which we call love! Otherwise, to me,
no