WE TWO

By Edna Lyall

CHAPTER I. Brian Falls in Love

 Still humanity grows dearer, Being learned the more. Jean Ingelow. 

 There are three things in this world which deserve no quarter--Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny. F. Robertson

People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places whereevery neighbor is known by sight, are apt to think that life in a largetown must lack many of the interests which they have learned to find intheir more limited communities. In a somewhat bewildered way, they gazeat the shifting crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it would bepossible to feel completely at home where all the surroundings of lifeseem ever changing and unfamiliar. 

But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any otherlarge town, know that there are in reality almost as many links betweenthe actors of the town life-drama as between those of the countrylife-drama. 

Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day inthe same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work; the facesof omnibus conductors grow familiar; we learn to know perfectly well onwhat day of the week and at what hour the well-known organ-grinder willmake his appearance, and in what street we shall meet the city clerk orthe care-worn little daily governess on their way to office or school. It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young doctor who had not been verylong settled in the Bloomsbury regions, had an engagement which tookhim every afternoon down Gower Street, and here many faces had grownfamiliar to him. He invariably met the same sallow-faced postman, thesame nasal-voiced milkman, the same pompous-looking man with the bushywhiskers and the shiny black bag, on his way home from the city. But theonly passenger in whom he took any interest was a certain bright-facedlittle girl whom he generally met just before the Montague Placecrossing. He always called her his "little girl, " though she was by nomeans little in the ordinary acceptation of the word, being at leastsixteen, and rather tall for her years. But there was a sort offreshness and naivete and youthfulness about her which made him usethat adjective. She usually carried a pile of books in a strap, so heconjectured that she must be coming from school, and, ever since he hadfirst seen her, she had worn the same rough blue serge dress, and thesame quaint little fur hat. In other details, however, he could nevertell in the least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood forevery day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost runpast him; sometimes she would saunter along in the most unconventionalway, glancing from time to time at a book or a paper; sometimes hereager face would look absolutely bewitching in its brightness; sometimesscarcely less bewitching in a consuming anxiety which seemed unnaturalin one so young. 

One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way downGower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the driving rainwhich seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's shrill voice wasstill far in the distance, the man of letters was still at work uponknockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl to makeher appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when suddenly hisumbrella was nearly knocked out of his hand by coming violently intocollision with another umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, helooked to see who it was who had charged him with such violence, andfound himself face to face with his unknown friend. He had never beenquite so close to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him, but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen--ittook his heart by storm. 

It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung overthe broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than aboy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and piquant; theusual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to carnation, perhapsbecause of the slight contretemps, perhaps because of some deeperemotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown eyes thatwere lifted to his seemed bright either with indignation or with unshedtears. Today it was clear that the mood was not a happy one. 

"I am very sorry, " she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a low, musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a child. "Ireally wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless of me. "

Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apologized profusely;but though he would have given much to detain her, if only a moment, shegave him no opportunity, but with a slight inclination passed rapidlyon. He stood quite still, watching her till she was out of sight, awareof a sudden change in his life. He was a busy hard-working man, not atall given to dreams, and it was no dream that he was in now. He knewperfectly well that he had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she tohim; that somehow in a single moment a new world had opened out to him. He had fallen in love. 

The trifling occurrence had made no great impression on the "littlegirl" herself. She was rather vexed with herself for the carelessness, but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart. She soon forgot thepassing interruption and the brown-bearded man with the pleasant grayeyes who had apologized for what was quite her fault. Something hadgone wrong that day, as Brian had surmised; the eyes grew brighter, thecarnation flush deepened as she hurried along, the delicate lipsclosed with a curiously hard expression, the hands were clasped withunnecessary tightness round the umbrella. 

She passed up Guilford Square, but did not turn into any of the olddecayed houses; her home was far less imposing. At the corner of thesquare there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of blind alleypaved with grim flagstones. Here, facing a high blank wall, are fouror five very dreary houses. She entered one of these, put down her wetumbrella in the shabby little hall, and opened the door of a barelyfurnished room, the walls of which were, however, lined with books. Beside the fire was the one really comfortable piece of furniture in theroom, an Ikeley couch, and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, whoglanced up with a smile of welcome. "Why, Erica, you are home earlytoday. How is that?"

"Oh, I don't know, " said Erica, tossing down her books in a way whichshowed her mother that she was troubled about something. "I suppose Itore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to stay at theHigh School. "

"Come and tell me about it, " said the mother, gently, "what has gonewrong, little one?"

"Everything!" exclaimed Erica, vehemently. "Everything always does gowrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never sent meto school, mother; I wish I need never see the place again!"

"But till today you enjoyed it so much. "

"Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never bethe same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to Gertrudeagain--to have noting more to do with her. "

"Who said so? And Why?"

"Why? Because I'm myself, " said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. "HowI can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father has comeback from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were friends, madeher promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this noteabout it. Look!" and she took a crumpled envelope from her pocket. 

The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came overher face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from her whenshe saw that look of sadness. 

"Don't read the horrid thing!" she exclaimed, crushing it up in herhand. "There, we will burn it!" and she threw it into the fire with avehemence which somehow relieved her. 

"You shouldn't have done that, " said her mother. "Your father will besure to want to see it. "

"No, no, no, " cried Erica, passionately. "He must not know; you must nottell him, mother. "

"Dear child, have you not learned that it is impossible to keep anythingfrom him? He will find out directly that something is wrong. "

"It will grieve him so; he must not hear it, " said Erica. "He cares somuch for what hurts us. Oh! Why are people so hard and cruel? Why dothey treat us like lepers? It isn't all because of losing Gertrude;I could bear that if there were some real reason--if she went awayor died. But there's no reason! It's all prejudice and bigotry andinjustice; it's that which makes it sting so. "

Erica was not at all given to tears, but there was now a sort of chokingin her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes which made her ratherhurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular nook beside hermother's couch, where her face could not be seen. There was a silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the wavy, auburn hair with herthin white hand. 

"For a long time I have dreaded this for you, Erica. I was afraid youdidn't realize the sort of position the world will give you. Till latelyyou have seen scarcely any but our own people, but it can hardly be, darling, that you can go on much longer without coming into contact withothers; and then, more and more, you must realize that you are cut offfrom much that other girls may enjoy. "

"Why?" questioned Erica. "Why can't they be friendly? Why must they cutus off from everything?"

"It does seem unjust; but you must remember that we belong to anunpopular minority. "

"But if I belonged to the larger party, I would at least be just tothe smaller, " said Erica. "How can they expect us to think their systembeautiful when the very first thing they show us is hatred and meanness. Oh! If I belonged to the other side I would show them how different itmight be. "

"I believe you would, " said the mother, smiling a little at the idea, and at the vehemence of the speaker. "But, as it is, Erica, I am afraidyou must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy you will be gladto share so soon in your father's vexations. "

"Yes, " said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and givingherself a kind of mental shaking. "I am glad of that. After all, theycan't spoil the best part of our lives! I shall go into the garden toget rid of my bad temper; it doesn't rain now. "

She struggled to her feet, picked up the little fur hat which had fallenoff, kissed her mother, and went out of the room. 

The "garden" was Erica's favorite resort, her own particular property. It was about fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner would havebestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica, who was of an inventiveturn, had contrived to make the most of the little patch of ground, hadinduced ivy to grow on the ugly brick walls, and with infinite care andsatisfaction had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthythough smutty life. In one of the corners, Tom Craigie, her favoritecousin, had put up a rough wooden bench for her, and here she read anddreamed as contentedly as if her "garden ground" had been fairy-land. Here, too, she invariably came when anything had gone wrong, when theendless troubles about money which had weighed upon her all herlife became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act ofdiscourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a tingling, burning sense of indignation. 

Erica was not one of those people who take life easily; things went verydeeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite ofher readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, and her singularlyquick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graverimpressions. 

Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her smalldomain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her; but hermother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had spoken of thevexations which might be shared. There was something inspiriting inthat thought, certainly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees thetrouble and indignation died away, and a very sweet look stole over thegrave little face. 

A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-colored wall, and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recognizingthe scatter of its daily bread. 

"After all, " though Erica, "with ourselves and the animals, we might letthe rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turnthe animals and birds against us! That would be worse than anything. "

Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took outof her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse. 

"Still sixpence of my prize money over, " she remarked to herself; "I'llgo and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them. "

Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to behad at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy sconeswhich she considered worthy the name, and that was at the Scotch baker'sin Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet pavements, glad that therain was over, for as soon as her purchase was completed she made upher mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had lately become avery frequent treat, namely a pause before a certain tempting store ofsecond-hand books. She had never had money enough to buy anything exceptthe necessary school books, and, being a great lover of poetry, shealways seized with avidity on anything that was to be found outside thebook shop. Sometimes she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, whichwould ring in her ears for days and days; sometimes she would read asmuch as two or three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her, and a certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulatingthan otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbsof Solomon, "Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret ispleasant. "

For three successive days she had found to her great delightLongfellow's "Hiawatha. " The strange meter, the musical Indian names, the delightfully described animals, all served to make the poemwonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of "Hiawatha"would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this afternoon, andwith her bag of scones in one hand and the book in the other she readon happily, quite unconscious that three pair of eyes were watching herfrom within the shop. 

The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had twocustomers, a tall, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly eyes, andhis son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged with her umbrellain Gower Street. 

"An outside customer for you, " remarked Charles Osmond, the clergyman, glancing at the shop keeper. Then to his son, "What a picture shemakes!"

Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had beenturning over. 

"Why that's my little Gower Street friend, " he exclaimed, the wordsbeing somehow surprised out of him, though he would fain have recalledthem the next minute. 

"I don't interrupt her, " said the shop owner. "Her father has done agreat deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy forpoetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll be bound. "

"Why, who is she?" asked Charles Osmond, who was on very friendly termswith the old book collector. 

"She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn, " was the reply, "and whatever folksmay say, I know that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life. "

Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at hisheart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn! And Luke Raeburn wasan atheist leader!

For a few minutes he lost consciousness of time and place, though alwaysseeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over her book. The shop keeper's casual remark had been a fearful blow to him; yet, as he came to himself again, his heart went out more and more to thebeautiful girl who had been brought up in what seemed to him so barrena creed. His dream of love, which had been bright enough only an hourbefore, was suddenly shadowed by an unthought of pain, but presentlybegan to shine with a new and altogether different luster. He began tohear again what was passing between his father and the shop keeper. 

"There's a sight more good in him than folks think. However wrong hisviews, he believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 'em, too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure! There is Mr. Raeburn, on the otherside of the Row! Fine-looking man, isn't he?"

Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must be mistaken for the onlypassenger in sight was a very tall man of remarkably benign aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable--or perhaps better described by the word"devotional-looking, " pervaded too by a certain majesty of calmnesswhich seemed scarcely suited to his character of public agitator. The clean-shaven and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably that of aScotchman, the thick waves of tawny hair overshadowing the wide brow, and the clear golden-brown eyes showed Brian at once that this could beno other than the father of his ideal. 

In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught sight of his daughter, slowlycrossed the road, and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly took holdof the book she was reading, and with laughter in his eyes, said, in aperemptory voice:

"Five shillings to pay, if you please, miss!"

Erica, who had been absorbed in the poem, looked up in dismay; thenseeing who had spoken, she began to laugh. 

"What a horrible fright you gave me, father! But do look at this, it'sthe loveliest thing in the world. I've just got to the 'very strong manKwasind. ' I think he's a little like you!"

Raeburn, though no very great lover of poetry, took the book and read afew lines. 

"Long they lived in peace together, Spake with naked hearts together, Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper. "

"Good! That will do very well for you and me, little one. I'm ready tobe your Kwasind. What's the price of the thing? Four and sixpence! Toomuch for a luxury. It must wait till our ship comes in. "

He put down the book, and they moved on together, but had not gone manypaces before they were stopped by a most miserable-looking beggar child. Brian standing now outside the shop, saw and heard all that passed. 

Raeburn was evidently investigating the case, Erica, a little impatientof the interruption, was remonstrating. 

"I thought you never gave to beggars, and I am sure that harrowing storyis made up. "

"Very likely, " replied the father, "but the hunger is real, and I knowwell enough what hunger is. What have you here?" he added, indicatingthe paper bag which Erica held. 

"Scones, " she said, unwillingly. 

"That will do, " he said, taking them from her and giving them to thechild. "He is too young to be anything but the victim of another'slaziness. There! Sit down and eat them while you can. "

The child sat down on the doorstep with the bag of scones clasped inboth hands, but he continued to gaze after his benefactor till hehad passed out of sight, and there was a strange look of surprise andgratification in his eyes. That was a man who knew! Many people had, after hard begging, thrown him pence, many had warned him off harshly, but this man had looked straight into his eyes, and had at once stoppedand questioned him, had singled out the one true statement from a massof lies, and had given him--not a stale loaf with the top cut off, asuspicious sort of charity which always angered the waif--but his ownfood, bought for his own consumption. Most wonderful of all, too, this man knew what it was to be hungry, and had even the insight andshrewdness to be aware that the waif's best chance of eating the sconesat all was to eat them then and there. For the first time a feeling ofreverence and admiration was kindled in the child's heart; he would havedone a great deal for his unknown friend. 

Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on in the direction of GuilfordSquare. 

"I had bought them for you, " said Erica, reproachfully. 

"And I ruthlessly gave them away, " said Raeburn, smiling. "That was hardlines; I though they were only household stock. But after all it comesto the same thing in the end, or better. You have given them to me bygiving them to the child. Never mind, 'Little son Eric!'"

This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them. Shewas his only child, and it had at first been a great disappointment toevery one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn had long ago ceased toregret this, and the nickname referred more to Erica's capability ofbeing both son and daughter to him, able to help him in his work and atthe same time to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of her name, for she had been called after her father's greatest friend, EricHaeberlein, a celebrated republican, who once during a long exile hadtaken refuge in London. His views were in some respects more extremethan Raeburn's, but in private life he was the gentlest and mostfascinating of men, and had quite won the heart of his little namesake. 

As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen thatsomething had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which hadnoticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at once thathis own child had been troubled. 

"Something has vexed you, " he said. "What is the matter, Erica?"

"I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much, " said Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones had becomeabsorbingly interesting. 

"I fancy I know already, " said Raeburn. "It is about your friend at theHigh School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had a letter fromher father. "

"What does he say? May I see it?" asked Erica. 

"I tore it up, " said Raeburn, "I thought you would ask to see it, andthe thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to. How did you hear about it?"

"Gertrude wrote me a note, " said Erica. 

"At her father's dictation, no doubt, " said Raeburn; "I should know hisstyle directly, let me see it. "

"I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it, " said Erica. 

Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each other, they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one. 

"It is the old story, " said Raeburn. "Life only, as Pope Innocent IIIbenevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy. ' You must make up your mind to bearthe social stigma, child. Do you see the moral of this?"

"No, " said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh. 

"The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people, " saidRaeburn. "There is this one good point about persecution--it does drawus all nearer together, really strengthens us in a hundred ways. So, little one, you must forswear school friends, and be content with your'very strong man Kwasind, ' and we will

 "'Live in peace together Speak with naked hearts together. '

By the bye, it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to thelecture tonight; do you think you can take notes for me instead?"

This was in reality the most delicate piece of tact and consideration, for it was, of course, Erica's delight and pride to help her father. 

CHAPTER II. From Effect to Cause

 Only the acrid spirit of the times, Corroded this true steel. Longfellow. 

 Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Not Thine the zealot's ban; Thou well canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man. Whittier. 

Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergyman of the Episcopal Church. His history, though familiar to his own followers and to them morepowerfully convincing than many arguments against modern Christianity, was not generally known. The orthodox were apt to content themselveswith shuddering at the mention of his name; very few troubled themselvesto think or inquire how this man had been driven into atheism. Had theydone so they might, perhaps, have treated him more considerately, at anyrate they must have learned that the much-disliked prophet of atheismwas the most disinterested of men, one who had the courage of hisopinions, a man of fearless honesty. 

Raeburn had lost his mother very early; his father, a well-to-do man, had held for many years a small living in the west of Scotland. He wasrather a clever man, but one-sided and bigoted; cold-hearted, too, andcaring very little for his children. Of Luke, however, he was, in hispeculiar fashion, very proud, for at an early age the boy showed signsof genius. The father was no great worker; though shrewd and clever, he had no ambition, and was quietly content to live out his life in theretired little parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him, and asmall and unexacting congregation on Sundays, he could do pretty much ashe pleased. But for his son he was ambitious. Ever since his sixteenthyear--when, at a public meeting the boy had, to the astonishmentof every one, suddenly sprung to his feet and contradicted a falsestatement made by a great landowner as to the condition of the cottageson his estate--the father had foreseen future triumphs for his son. Forthe speech, though unpremeditated, was marvelously clever, and there wasa power in it not to be accounted for by a certain ring of indignation;it was the speech of a future orator. 

Then, too, Luke had by this time shown signs of religious zeal, a zealwhich his father, though far from attempting to copy, could not butadmire. His Sunday services over, he relapsed into the comfortable, easy-going life of a country gentleman for the rest of the week; buthis son was indefatigable, and, though little more than a boy himself, gathered round him the roughest lads of the village, and by hiseloquence, and a certain peculiar personal fascination which he retainedall his life, absolutely forced them to listen to him. The fatheraugured great things for him, and invariably prophesied that he would"live to see him a bishop yet. "

It was a settled thing that he should take Holy Orders, and for sometime Raeburn was only too happy to carry out his father's plans. In hisvery first term at Cambridge, however, he began to feel doubts, and, becoming convinced that he could never again accept the doctrines inwhich he had been educated, he told his father that he must give up allthought of taking Orders. 

Now, unfortunately, Mr. Raeburn was the very last man to understandor sympathize with any phase of life through which he had not himselfpassed. He had never been troubled with religious doubts; skepticismseemed to him monstrous and unnatural. He met the confession, whichhis son had made in pain and diffidence, with a most deplorable want oftact. In answer to the perplexing questions which were put to him, hemerely replied testily that Luke had been overworking himself, and thathe had no business to trouble his head with matters which were beyondhim, and would fain have dismissed the whole affair at once. 

"But, " urged the son, "how is it possible for me to turn my back onthese matters when I am preparing to teach them?"

"Nonsense, " replied the father, angrily. "Have not I taught all my life, preached twice a Sunday these thirty years without perplexing myselfwith your questionings? Be off to your shooting, and your golf, and letme have no more of this morbid fuss. "

No more was said; but Luke Raeburn, with his doubts and questions shutthus into himself, drifted rapidly from skepticism to the most positiveform of unbelief. When he next came home for the long vacation, hisfather was at length awakened to the fact that the son, upon whom allhis ambition was set, was hopelessly lost to the Church; and with thisconsciousness a most bitter sense of disappointment rose in his heart. His pride, the only side of fatherhood which he possessed, was deeplywounded, and his dreams of honorable distinction were laid low. Hiswrath was great. Luke found the home made almost unbearable to him. Hiscollege career was of course at an end, for his father would not hearof providing him with the necessary funds now that he had actuallyconfessed his atheism. He was hardly allowed to speak to his sisters, every request for money to start him in some profession met with a sharprefusal, and matters were becoming so desperate that he would probablyhave left the place of his own accord before long, had not Mr. Raeburnhimself put an end to a state of things which had grown insufferable. 

With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convincing his son, he resolvedupon trying a course of argument. To do him justice he really tried toprepare himself for it, dragged down volumes of dusty divines, and gotup with much pains Paley's "watch" argument. There was some honesty, even perhaps a very little love, in his mistaken endeavors; but he didnot recognize that while he himself was unforgiving, unloving, harsh, and self-indulgent, all his arguments for Christianity were of necessitynull and void. He argued for the existence of a perfectly loving, goodGod, all the while treating his son with injustice and tyranny. Ofcourse there could be only one result from a debate between thetwo. Luke Raeburn with his honesty, his great abilities, his gift ofreasoning, above all his thorough earnestness, had the best of it. 

To be beaten in argument was naturally the one thing which such a man asMr. Raeburn could not forgive. He might in time have learned to toleratea difference of opinion, he would beyond a doubt have forgiven almostany of the failings that he could understand, would have paid his son'scollege debts without a murmur, would have overlooked anything connectedwith what he considered the necessary process of "sowing his wild oats. "But that the fellow should presume to think out the greatest problems inthe world, should set up his judgment against Paley's, and worst ofall should actually and palpably beat HIM in argument--this was anunpardonable offense. 

A stormy scene ensued. The father, in ungovernable fury, heaped upon theson every abusive epithet he could think of. Luke Raeburn spoke not aword; he was strong and self-controlled; moreover, he knew that he hadhad the best of the argument. He was human, however, and his heart waswrung by his father's bitterness. Standing there on that summer day, in the study of the Scotch parsonage, the man's future was sealed. Hesuffered there the loss of all things, but at the very time there sprungup in him an enthusiasm for the cause of free thought, a passionate, burning zeal for the opinions for which he suffered, which never lefthim, but served as the great moving impulse of his whole subsequentlife. 

"I tell you, you are not fit to be in a gentleman's house, " thunderedthe father. "A rank atheist, a lying infidel! It is against nature thatyou should call a parsonage your home. "

"It is not particularly home-like, " said the son, bitterly. "I can leaveit when you please. "

"Can!" exclaimed the father, in a fury, "you WILL leave it, sir, andthis very day too! I disown you from this time. I'll have no atheist formy son! Change your views or leave the house at once. "

Perhaps he expected his son to make some compromise; if so he showedwhat a very slight knowledge he had of his character. Luke Raeburn hadcertainly not been prepared for such extreme harshness, but withthe pain and grief and indignation there rose in his heart a mightyresoluteness. With a face as hard and rugged as the granite rockswithout, he wished his father goodbye, and obeyed his orders. 

Then had followed such a struggle with the world as few men would havegone through with. Cut off from all friends and relations by his avowalof atheism, and baffled again and again in seeking to earn his living, he had more than once been on the very brink of starvation. By sheerforce of will he had won his way, had risen above adverse circumstances, had fought down obstacles, and conquered opposing powers. Before longhe had made fresh friends and gained many followers, for there was anextraordinary magnetism about the man which almost compelled those whowere brought into contact with him to reverence him. 

It was a curious history. First there had been that time of grievousdoubt; then he had been thrown upon the world friendless and penniless, with the beliefs and hopes hitherto most sacred to him dead, and intheir place an aching blank. He had suffered much. Treated on all sideswith harshness and injustice, it was indeed wonderful that he had notdeveloped into a mere hater, a passionate down-puller. But there was inhis character a nobility which would not allow him to rest at thislow level. The bitter hostility and injustice which he encountereddid indeed warp his mind, and every year of controversy made it moreimpossible for him to take an unprejudiced view of Christ's teaching;but nevertheless he could not remain a mere destroyer. 

In that time of blankness, when he had lost all faith in God, when hehad been robbed of friendship and family love, he had seized desperatelyon the one thing left him--the love of humanity. To him atheism meantnot only the assertion--"The word God is a word without meaning, itconveys nothing to my understanding. " He added to this barren confessionof an intellectual state a singularly high code of duty. Such a code ascould only have emanated from one about whom there lingered what Carlylehas termed a great after-shine of Christianity. He held that the onlyhappiness worth having was that which came to a man while engaged inpromoting the general good. That the whole duty of man was to devotehimself to the service of others. And he lived his creed. 

Like other people, he had his faults, but he was always ready to spendand he spent for what he considered the good of others, while everyact of injustice called forth his unsparing rebuke, and every oppressedperson or cause was sure to meet with his support at whatever cost tohimself. His zeal for what he regarded as the "gospel" of atheism grewand strengthened year by year. He was the untiring advocate of what heconsidered the truth. Neither illness nor small results, nor loss, couldquench his ardor, while opposition invariably stimulated him tofresh efforts. After long years of toil, he had at length attainedan influential position in the country, and though crippled by debtsincurred in the struggle for freedom of speech, and living in absolutepenury, he was one of the most powerful men of the day. 

The old bookseller had very truly observed that there was more good inhim than people thought, he was in fact a noble character twisted thewrong way by clumsy and mistaken handling. 

Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted; he had moreover, known those whowere intimate with Raeburn, and consequently had heard enough of thetruth about him to disbelieve the gross libels which were constantlybeing circulated by the unscrupulous among his opponents. Still, ason that November afternoon he watched Raeburn and his daughter downSouthampton Row, he was conscious that for the first time he fullyregarded the atheist as a fellow-man. The fact was that Raeburn had forlong years been the champion of a hated cause; he had braved the fullflood of opposition; and like an isolated rock had been the mark for somuch of the rage and fury of the elements that people who knew him onlyby name had really learned to regard him more as a target than as a man. It was he who could hit hardest, who could most effectually baffle andruin him; while the quieter spirits contented themselves with rarelymentioning his obnoxious name, and endeavoring as far as possible, toignore his existence. Brian felt that till now he had followed with themultitude to do evil. He had, as far as possible, ignored his existence;had even been rather annoyed when his father had once publicly urgedthat Raeburn should be treated with as much justice and courtesy andconsideration as if he had been a Christian. He had been vexed that hisfather should suffer on behalf of such a man, had been half inclined toput down the scorn and contempt and anger of the narrow-minded to theatheist's account. The feeling had perhaps been natural, but all waschanged now; he only revered his father all the more for having sufferedin an unpopular cause. With some eagerness, he went back into the shopto see if he could gather any more particulars from the oldbookseller. Charles Osmond had, however, finished his purchases and hisconversation, and was ready to go. 

"The second house in Guilford Terrace, you say?" he observed, turningat the door. "Thank you. I shall be sure to find it. Good day. "Then turning to his son, he added, "I had no idea we were such nearneighbors! Did you hear what he told me? Mr. Raeburn lives in GuilfordTerrace. "

"What, that miserable blind alley, do you mean at the other side of thesquare?"

"Yes, and I am just going round there now, for our friend the'book-worm' tells me he has heard it rumored that some unscrupulousperson who is going to answer Mr. Raeburn this evening, has hired aband of roughs to make a disturbance at the meeting. Fancy how indignantDonovan would be! I only wish he were here to take a word to Mr. Raeburn. "

"Will he not most likely have heard from some other source?" said Brian. 

"Possibly, but I shall go round and see. Such abominations ought to beput down, and if by our own side all the better. "

Brian was only too glad that his father should go, and indeed he wouldprobably have wished to take the message himself had not his mind beenset upon getting the best edition of Longfellow to be found in allLondon for his ideal. So at the turning into Guilford Square, the fatherand son parted. 

The bookseller's information had roused in Charles Osmond a keen senseof indignation; he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his son, and in a very few minutes had reached the gloomy entrance to GuilfordTerrace. It was currently reported that Raeburn made fabulous sumsby his work, and lived in great luxury; but the real fact was that, whatever his income, few men led so self-denying a life, or voluntarilyendured such privations. Charles Osmond could not help wishing thathe could bring some of the intolerant with him down that gloomy littlealley, to the door of that comfortless lodging house. He rang, and wasadmitted into the narrow passage, then shown into the private study ofthe great man. The floor was uncarpeted, the window uncurtained, theroom was almost dark; but a red-glow of fire light served to show alarge writing table strewn with papers, and walls literally lined withbooks; also on the hearth-rug a little figure curled up in the mostunconventionally comfortable attitude, dividing her attention betweenmaking toast and fondling a loud-purring cat. 

CHAPTER III. Life From Another Point of View

 Toleration an attack on Christianity? What, then, are we to come to this pass, to suppose that nothing can support Christianity but the principles of persecution?. .. I am persuaded that toleration, so far from being an attack on Christianity, becomes the best and surest support that can possibly be given to it. .. . Toleration is good for all, or it is good for none. .. God forbid. I may be mistaken, but I take toleration to be a part of religion. Burke

Erica was, apparently, well used to receiving strangers. She put downthe toasting fork, but kept the cat in her arms, as she rose to greetCharles Osmond, and her frank and rather child-like manner fascinatedhim almost as much as it had fascinated Brian. 

"My father will be home in a few minutes, " she said; "I almost wonderyou didn't meet him in the square; he has only just gone to send off atelegram. Can you wait? Or will you leave a message?"

"I will wait, if I may, " said Charles Osmond. "Oh, don't trouble abouta light. I like this dimness very well, and, please, don't let meinterrupt you. "

Erica relinquished a vain search for candle lighters, and took up herformer position on the hearth rug with her toasting fork. 

"I like the gloaming, too, " she said. "It's almost the only nice thingwhich is economical! Everything else that one likes specially costs toomuch! I wonder whether people with money do enjoy all the great treats. "

"Very soon grow blase, I expect, " said Charles Osmond. "The essence of atreat is rarity, you see. "

"I suppose it is. But I think I could enjoy ever so many things foryears and years without growing blase, " said Erica. 

"Sometimes I like just to fancy what life might be if there were notiresome Christians, and bigots, and lawsuits. "

Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the dim light; the remark was madewith such perfect sincerity, and it evidently had not dawned on thespeaker that she could be addressing any but one of her father'sfollowers. Yet the words saddened Him too. He just caught a glimpsethrough them of life viewed from a directly opposite point. 

"Your father has a lawsuit going on now, has he not?" he observed, aftera little pause. 

"Oh, yes, there is almost always one either looming in the distance oractually going on. I don't think I can ever remember the time when wewere quite free. It must feel very funny to have no worries of thatkind. I think, if there wasn't always this great load of debt tied roundour necks, like a millstone, I should feel almost light enough to fly. And then it IS hard to read in some of those horrid religious papersthat father lives an easy-going life. Did you see a dreadful paragraphlast week in the 'Church Chronicle?'"

"Yes, I did, " said Charles Osmond, sadly. 

"It always has been the same, " said Erica. "Father has a delightfulstory about an old gentleman who at one of his lectures accused him ofbeing rich and self-indulgent--it was a great many years ago, when I wasa baby, and father was nearly killing himself with overwork--and he justgot up and gave the people the whole history of his day, and it turnedout that he had had nothing to eat. Mustn't the old gentleman have feltdelightfully done? I always wonder how he looked when he heard aboutit, and whether after that he believed that atheists are not necessarilyeverything that's bad. "

"I hope such days as those are over for Mr. Raeburn, " said CharlesOsmond, touched both by the anecdote and by the loving admiration of thespeaker. 

"I don't know, " said Erica, sadly. "It has been getting steadily worsefor the last few years; we have had to give up thing after thing. Beforelong I shouldn't wonder if these rooms in what father calls 'Persecutionalley' grew too expensive for us. But, after all, it is this sort ofthing which makes our own people love him so much, don't you think?"

"I have no doubt it is, " said Charles Osmond, thoughtfully. 

And then for a minute or two there was silence. Erica, having finishedher toasting, stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles Osmond satwatching the fair, childish face which looked lovelier than ever in thesoft glow of the fire light. What would her future be, he wondered. Sheseemed too delicate and sensitive for the stormy atmosphere in which shelived. Would the hard life embitter her, or would she sink under it?But there was a certain curve of resoluteness about her well-formed chinwhich was sufficient answer to the second question, while he could notbut think that the best safeguard against the danger of bitterness layin her very evident love and loyalty to her father. 

Erica in the meantime sat stroking her cat Friskarina, and wondering alittle who her visitor could be. She liked him very much, and couldnot help responding to the bright kindly eyes which seemed to pleadfor confidence; though he was such an entire stranger she found herselfquite naturally opening out her heart to him. 

"I am to take notes at my father's meeting tonight, " she said, breakingthe silence, "and perhaps write the account of it afterward, too, andthere's such a delightfully funny man coming to speak on the otherside. "

"Mr. Randolph, is it not?"

"Yes, a sort of male Mrs. Malaprop. Oh, such fun!" and at theremembrance of some past encounter, Erica's eyes positively danced withlaughter. But the next minute she was very grave. 

"I came to speak to Mr. Raeburn about this evening, " said CharlesOsmond. "Do you know if he has heard of a rumor that this Mr. Randolphhas hired a band of roughs to interrupt the meeting?"

Erica made an indignant exclamation. 

"Perhaps that was what the telegram was about, " she continued, aftera moment's thought. "We found it here when we came in. Father saidnothing, but went out very quickly to answer it. Oh! Now we shall have adreadful time of it, I suppose, and perhaps he'll get hurt again. I didhope they had given up that sort of thing. "

She looked so troubled that Charles Osmond regretted he had saidanything, and hastened to assure her that what he had heard was themerest rumor, and very possibly not true. 

"I am afraid, " she said, "it is too bad not to be true. "

It struck Charles Osmond that that was about the saddest little sentencehe had ever heard. 

Partly wishing to change the subject, party from real interest, he madesome remark about a lovely little picture, the only one in the room; itsframe was lighted up by the flickering blaze, and even in the imperfectlight he could see that the subject was treated in no ordinary way. It was a little bit of the Thames far away from London, with a bankof many-tinted trees on one side, and out beyond a range of low hills, purple in the evening light. In the sky was a rosy sunset glow, meltedabove into saffron color, and this was reflected in the water, gildingand mellowing the foreground of sedge and water lilies. But what madethe picture specially charming was that the artist had really caughtthe peculiar solemn stillness of evening; merely to look at that quiet, peaceful river brought a feeling of hush and calmness. It seemed astrange picture to find as the sole ornament in the study of a man whohad all his life been fighting the world. 

Erica brightened up again, and seemed to forget her anxiety when hequestioned her as to the artist. 

"There is such a nice story about that picture, " she said, "I alwayslike to look at it. It was about two years ago, one very cold winter'sday, and a woman came with some oil paintings which she was trying tosell for her husband, who was ill; he was rather a good artist, but hadbeen in bad health for a long time, till at last she had really cometo hawking about his pictures in this way, because they were in suchdreadful distress. Father was very much worried just then, there was ahorrid libel case going on, and that morning he was very busy, and hesent the woman away rather sharply, and said he had no time to listento her. Then presently he was vexed with himself because she really hadlooked in great trouble, and he thought he had been harsh, and, thoughhe was dreadfully pressed for time, he would go out into the square tosee if he couldn't find her again. I went with him, and we had walkedall round and had almost given her up, when we caught sight of hercoming out of a house on the opposite side. And then it was so nice, father spoke so kindly to her, and found out more about her history, andsaid that he was too poor to buy her pictures; but she looked dreadfullytired and cold, so he asked her to come in and rest, and she came andsat by the fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we looked at herpictures, because she seemed so proud of them and liked us to. One ofthem was that little river scene, which father took a great fancy to, and praised a great deal. She left us her address, and later on, whenthe libel case was ended, and father had got damages, and so had alittle spare money, he sent some to this poor artist, and they were sograteful; though, do you know, I think the dinner pleased them more thanthe money, and they would insist on sending this picture to father. I'lllight the gas, and then you'll see it better. "

She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and put an end to thegloaming. Charles Osmond stood up to get a nearer view of the painting, and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for a minute in silence. 

"Father took me up the Thames once, " she said, by and by. "It was solovely. Some day, when all these persecutions are over, we are goingto have a beautiful tour, and see all sorts of places. But I don't knowwhen they will be over. As soon as one bigot--" she broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation of dismay. 

Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his long gray beard, had notbetrayed his clerical dress; but, glancing round at him now, she saw atonce that the stranger to whom she had spoken so unreservedly was by nomeans one of her father's followers. 

"Well!" he said, smiling, half understanding her confusion. 

"You are a clergyman!" she almost gasped. 

"Yes, why not?"

"I beg your pardon, I never thought--you seemed so much too--"

"Too what?" urged Charles Osmond. Then, as she still hesitated, "Now, you must really let me hear the end of that sentence, or I shall imagineeverything dreadful. "

"Too nice, " murmured Erica, wishing that she could sink through thefloor. 

But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond that he laughed aloud, andhis laughter was so infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion, could not help joining in it. She had a very keen sense of theludicrous, and the position was undoubtedly a laughable one; still therewere certain appalling recollections of the past conversation which soonmade her serious again. She had talked of persecutions to one who was, at any rate, on the side of persecutors; had alluded to bigots, and, worst of all, had spoken in no measured terms of "tiresome Christians. "

She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a touch of dignity, to hervisitor, and said:

"It was very careless of me not to notice more, but it was dark, and Iam not used to seeing any but our own people here. I am afraid I saidthings which must have hurt you; I wish you had stopped me. "

The beautiful color had spread and deepened in her cheeks, and there wassomething indescribably sweet and considerate in her tone of apology. Charles Osmond was touched by it. 

"It is I who should apologize, " he said. "I am not at all sure that Iwas justified in sitting there quietly, knowing that you were undera delusion; but it is always very delightful to me in this artificialworld to meet any one who talks quite naturally, and the interest ofhearing your view of the question kept me silent. You must forgive me, and as you know I am too nice to be a clergyman--"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. How rude I have been, " cried Erica, blushinganew; "but you did make me say it. "

"Of course, and I take it as a high compliment from you, " said CharlesOsmond, laughing again at the recollection. "Come, may we not sealour friendship? We have been sufficiently frank with each other to besomething more than acquaintances for the future. "

Erica held out her hand and found it taken in a strong, firm clasp, which somehow conveyed much more than an ordinary handshake. 

"And, after all, you ARE too nice for a clergyman!" she thought toherself. Then, as a fresh idea crossed her mind, she suddenly exclaimed:"But you came to tell us about Mr. Randolph's roughs, did you not? Howcame you to care that we should know beforehand?"

"Why, naturally I hoped that a disturbance might be stopped. "

"Is it natural?" questioned Erica. "I should have thought it morenatural for you to think with your own party. "

"But peace and justice and freedom of speech must all stand before partyquestions. "

"Yet you think that we are wrong, and that Christianity is right?"

"Yes, but to my mind perfect justice is part of Christianity. "

"Oh, " said Erica, in a tone which meant unutterable things. 

"You think that Christians do not show perfect justice to you?" saidCharles Osmond, reading her thoughts. 

"I can't say I think they do, " she replied. Then, suddenly firing up atthe recollection of her afternoon's experiences, she said: "They are notjust to us, though they preach justice; they are not loving, though theytalk about love. If they want us to think their religion true, I wonderthey don't practice it a little more and preach it less. What is the useof talking of 'brotherly kindness and charity, ' when they hardly treatus like human beings, when they make up wicked lies about us, and willhardly let us sit in the same room with them!"

"Come, now, we really are sitting in the same room, " said CharlesOsmond, smiling. 

"Oh, dear, what am I to do!" exclaimed Erica. "I can't remember that youare one of them! You are so very unlike most. "

"I think, " said Charles Osmond, "you have come across some very badspecimens. "

Erica, in her heart, considered her visitor as the exception whichproved the rule; but not wishing to be caught tripping again, sheresolved to say no more upon the subject. 

"Let us talk of something else, " she said. 

"Something nicer?" said Charles Osmond, with a little mischievoustwinkle in his eyes. 

"Safer, " said Erica, laughing. "But stop, I hear my father. "

She went out into the passage to meet him. Charles Osmond heard herexplaining his visit and the news he had brought, heard Raeburn'sbrief responses; then, in a few moments, the two entered the room, apicturesque looking couple, the clergyman thought; the tall, statelyman, with his broad forehead and overshadowing masses of auburn hair;the little eager-faced, impetuous girl, so winsome in her unconventionalfrankness. 

The conversation became a trifle more ceremonious, though with Ericaperched on the arm of her father's chair, ready to squeeze his hand atevery word which pleased her, it could hardly become stiff. Raeburn hadjust heard the report of Mr. Randolph's scheme, and had already takenprecautionary measures; but he was surprised and gratified that CharlesOsmond should have troubled to bring him word about it. The two mentalked on with the most perfect friendliness; and by and by, to Erica'sgreat delight, Charles Osmond expressed a wish to be present at themeeting that night, and made inquiries as to the time and place. 

"Oh, couldn't you stay to tea and go with us?" she exclaimed, forgettingfor the third time that he was a clergyman, and offering the readyhospitality she would have offered to any one else. 

"I should be delighted, " he said, smiling, "if you can really put upwith one of the cloth. "

Raeburn, amused at his daughter's spontaneous hospitality, and pleasedwith the friendly acceptance it had met with, was quite ready to secondthe invitation. Erica was delighted; she carried off the cat andthe toast into the next room, eager to tell her mother all about thevisitor. 

"The most delightful man, mother, not a bit like a clergyman. I didn'tfind out for ever so long what he was, and said all sorts of dreadfulthings; but he didn't mind, and was not the least offended. "

"When will you learn to be cautious, I wonder, " said Mrs. Raeburn, smiling. "You are a shocking little chatter-box. "

And as Erica flitted busily about, arranging the tea table, her motherwatched her half musedly, half anxiously. She had always been remarkablyfrank and outspoken, and there was something so transparently sincereabout her, that she seldom gave offense. But the mother could not helpwondering how it would be as she grew older and mixed with a greatervariety of people. In fact, in every way she was anxious about thechild's future, for Erica's was a somewhat perplexing character, andseemed very ill fitted for her position. 

Eric Haeberlein had once compared her to a violin, and there was a gooddeal of truth in his idea. She was very sensitive, responding at once tothe merest touch, and easily moved to admiration and devoted love, orto strong indignation. Naturally high-spirited, she was subject, too, tofits of depression, and was always either in the heights or the depths. Yet with all these characteristics was blended her father's indomitablecourage and tenacity. Though feeling the thorns of life far more keenlythan most people, she was one of those who will never yield; thoughpricked and wounded by outward events, she would never be conquered bycircumstances. At present her capabilities for adoration, which werevery great, were lavished in two directions; in the abstract sheworshipped intellect, in the concrete she worshipped her father. 

From the grief and indignation of the afternoon she had passed withextraordinary rapidity to a state of merriment, which would have beenincomprehensible to one who did not understand her peculiarly complexcharacter. Mrs. Raeburn listened with a good deal of amusement to herracy description of Charles Osmond. 

"Strange that this should have happened so soon after our talk thisafternoon, " she said, musingly. "Perhaps it is as well that you shouldhave a glimpse of the other side, against which you were inveighing, oryou might be growing narrow. "

"He is much too good to belong to them!" said Erica enthusiastically. 

As she spoke Raeburn entered, bringing the visitor with him, and theyall sat down to their meal, Erica pouring out tea and attending to everyone's wants, fondling her cat, and listening to the conversation, withall the time a curious perception that to sit down to table with one ofher father's opponents was a very novel experience. She could not helpspeculating as to the thoughts and impressions of her companions. Hermother was, she thought, pleased and interested for about her worn facethere was the look of contentment which invariably came when for atime the bitterness of the struggle of life was broken by any signof friendliness. Her father was--as he generally was in his ownhouse--quiet, gentle in manner, ready to be both an attentive and aninterested listener. This gift he had almost as markedly as the gift ofspeech; he at once perceived that his guest was no ordinary man, andby a sort of instinct he had discovered on what subjects he was bestcalculated to speak, and wherein they could gain most from him. CharlesOsmond's thoughts she could only speculate about; but that he was readyto take them all as friends, and did not regard them as a differentorder of being, was plain. 

The conversation had drifted into regions of abstruse science, whenErica, who had been listening attentively, was altogether divertedby the entrance of the servant, who brought her a brown-paper parcel. Eagerly opening it, she was almost bewildered by the delightful surpriseof finding a complete edition of Longfellow's poems, bound in dark bluemorocco. Inside was written: "From another admirer of 'Hiawatha. '"

She started up with a rapturous exclamation, and the two men paused intheir talk, each unable to help watching the beautiful little face allaglow with happiness. Erica almost danced round the room with her newtreasure. 

"What HEAVENLY person can have sent me this?" she cried. "Look, father!Did you ever see such a beauty?"

Science went to the winds, and Raeburn gave all his sympathy to Ericaand Longfellow. "The very thing you were wishing for. Who could havesent it?"

"I can't think. It can't be Tom, because I know he's spent all hismoney, and auntie would never call herself an admirer of 'Hiawatha, ' norHerr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol, nor any one I can think of. "

"Dealings with the fairies, " said Raeburn, smiling. "Your beggar-childwith the scones suddenly transformed into a beneficent rewarder. "

"Not from you, father?"

Raeburn laughed. 

"A pretty substantial fairy for you. No, no, I had no hand in it. Ican't give you presents while I am in debt, my bairn. "

"Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!" said Erica, with a fervorwhich made the three grown-up people laugh. 

"Very jolly, " said Raeburn, giving her a little mute caress. 

"But now, Erica, please to go back and eat something, or I shall have myreporter fainting in the middle of a speech. "

She obeyed, carrying away the book with her, and enlivening them withextracts from it; once delightedly discovering a most appropriatepassage. 

"Why, of course, " she exclaimed, "you and Mr. Osmond, father, aresmoking the Peace Pipe. " And with much force and animation she read thembits from the first canto. 

Raeburn left the room before long to get ready for his meeting, butErica still lingered over her new treasure, putting it down at lengthwith great reluctance to prepare her notebook and sharpen her pencil. "Isn't that a delightful bit where Hiawatha was angry, " she said; "ithas been running in my head all day--

 "'For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. '

That's what I shall feel like tonight when Mr. Randolph attacks father. "

She ran upstairs to dress, and, as the door closed upon her, Mrs. Raeburn turned to Charles Osmond with a sort of apology. 

"She finds it very hard not to speak out her thoughts; it will often gether into trouble, I am afraid. "

"It is too fresh and delightful to be checked, though, " said CharlesOsmond; "I assure you she has taught me many a lesson tonight. "

The mother talked on almost unreservedly about the subject that wasevidently nearest her heart--the difficulties of Erica's education, the harshness they so often met with, the harm it so evidently did thechild--till the subject of the conversation came down again much tooexcited and happy to care just then for any unkind treatment. Hadshe not got a Longfellow of her very own, and did not that unexpectedpleasure make up for a thousand privations and discomforts?

Yet, with all her childishness and impetuosity, Erica was womanly, too, as Charles Osmond saw by the way she waited on her mother, thinking ofeverything which the invalid could possibly want while they were gone, brightening the whole place with her sunshiny presence. Whateverelse was lacking, there was no lack of love in this house. The tenderconsiderateness which softened Erica's impetuosity in her mother'spresence, the loving comprehension, between parent and child, was verybeautiful to see. 

CHAPTER IV. "Supposing it is true!"

 A man who strives earnestly and perseveringly to convince others, at least convinces us that he is convinced himself. Guesses at Truth. 

 The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlit night. Erica, apparently in high spirits, walked between her father and Charles Osmond. 

"Mother won't be anxious about us, " she said. "She has not heard a wordabout Mr. Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one would speakabout it at tea time, and then she would have been in a fright all theevening, and would not have liked my going. "

"Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscrupulous, " said Raeburn. "ButI doubt if even he would set his roughs upon you, little one, unlesshe has become as blood thirsty as a certain old Scotch psalm we used tosing. "

"What was that?" questioned Erica. 

"I forget the beginning, but the last verse always had a sort ofhorrible fascination for us--

"'How happy should that trooper be Who, riding on a naggie, Should takethy little children up, And dash them 'gin the craggie!'"

Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heartily. 

"They will only dash you against metaphorical rocks in the nineteenthcentury, " continued Raeburn. "I remember wondering why the old clerk inmy father's church always sung that verse lustily; but you see we haveexactly the same spirit now, only in a more civilized form, barbaritychanged to polite cruelty, as for instance the way you were treated thisafternoon. "

"Oh, don't talk about that, " said Erica, quickly, "I am going to enjoymy Longfellow and forget the rest. "

In truth, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father anddaughter; each had a way of putting back their bitter thoughts, ofdwelling whenever it was possible on the brighter side of life. He knewthat Raeburn was involved in most harassing litigation, was burdenedwith debt, was confronted everywhere with bitter and often violentopposition, yet he seemed to live above it all, for there was awonderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his aspect, which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to one who hasspent his life in fighting against desperate odds. One thing was quiteclear, the man was absolutely convinced that he was suffering forthe truth, and was ready to endure anything in what he considered theservice of his fellow men. He did not seem particularly anxious as tothe evening's proceedings. On the whole, they were rather a merry partyas they walked along Gower Street to the station. 

But when they got out again at their destination, and walked through thebusy streets to the hall where the lecture was to be given, a sort ofseriousness fell upon all three. They were each going to work in theirdifferent ways for what they considered the good of humanity, andinstinctively a silence grew and deepened. 

Erica was the first to break it as they came in sight of the hall. 

"What a crowd there is!" she exclaimed. "Are these Mr. Randolph'sroughs?"

"We can put up with them outside, " said Raeburn; but Charles Osmondnoticed that as he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with amomentary look of trouble in his face, as though he shrunk from takingher through the rabble. Erica, on the other hand, looked interestedand perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they forced their wayon, hooted and yelled at by the mob, who, however, made no attempt atviolence. At length, reaching the shelter of the entrance lobby, Raeburnleft them for a moment, pausing to give directions to the door keepers. Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond caught sight of hisson standing only a few paces from them. His exclamation of astonishmentmade Erica look up. Brian came forward eagerly to meet them. 

"You here!" exclaimed his father, with a latent suspicion confirmed intoa certainty. "This is my son, Miss Raeburn. "

Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had waited about curious tosee how Raeburn would get on with the mob; it was with a strange pangof rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair little ideal. That sheshould be in the midst of that hooting mob made his heart throb withindignation, yet there was something so sweet in her grave, steadfastface that he was, nevertheless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Hercolor was rather heightened, her eyes bright but very quiet, yet asCharles Osmond spoke, and she looked at Brian, her face all at oncelighted up, and with an irresistible smile she exclaimed, in the mostchildlike of voices:

"Why, it's my umbrella man!" The informality of the exclamation seemedto make them at once something more than ordinary acquaintances. Theytold Charles Osmond of their encounter in the afternoon, and in a veryfew minutes Brian, hardly knowing whether he was not in some strangedream, found himself sitting with his father and Erica in a crowdedlecture hall, realizing with an intensity of joy and an intensity ofpain how near he was to the queen of his heart and yet how far from her. 

The meeting was quite orderly. Though Raeburn was addressing manywho disagreed with him, he had evidently got the whole and undividedattention of his audience; and indeed his gifts both as rhetorician andorator were so great that they must have been either willfully deaf orobtuse who, when under the spell of his extraordinary earnestness andeloquence, could resist listening. Not a word was lost on Brian; everysentence which emphasized the great difference of belief between himselfand his love seemed to engrave itself on his heart; no minutest detailof that evening escaped him. 

He saw the tall, commanding figure of the orator, the vast sea ofupturned faces below, the eager attention imprinted on all, sometimes awave of sympathy and approval sweeping over them, resulting in a stormof applause, at times a more divided disapproval, or a shout of "No, no, " which invariably roused the speaker to a more vigorous, clear, andemphatic repetition of the questioned statement. And, through all, hewas ever conscious of the young girl at his side, who, with her headbent over her notebook, was absorbed in her work. While the most vitalquestions of life were being discussed, he was yet always aware of thathand traveling rapidly to and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of thequick yet weary-looking change of posture. 

Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm, Raeburn's speech was, on the whole, temperate; it certainly should have been met withconsideration. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was incapable of seeingany good in his opponent; his combative instincts were far stronger thanhis Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many times while listeningto the champion of atheism, was even more keenly wounded by the championof his own cause. Abusive epithets abounded in his retort; at lasthe left the subject under discussion altogether, and launched intopersonalities of the most objectionable kind. Raeburn sat with foldedarms, listening with a sort of cold dignity. He looked very differentnow from the genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles Osmond had seen inhis own home but an hour or two ago. There was a peculiar look in histawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a look which was hard, andcold, and steady. It told of an originally sensitive nature inured toill treatment; of a strong will which had long ago steeled itself toendure; of a character which, though absolutely refusing to yield toopposition, had grown slightly bitter, even slightly vindictive in theprocess. 

Brian could only watch in silent pain the little figure beside him. Onceat some violent term of abuse she looked up, and glanced for a momentat the speaker; he just caught a swift, indignant flash from her brighteyes, then her head was bent lower than before over her notebook, andthe carnation deepened in her cheek, while her pencil sped over thepaper fast and furiously. Presently came a sharp retort from Raeburn, ending with the perfectly warrantable accusation that Mr. Randolph waswandering from the subject of the evening merely to indulge his personalspite. The audience was beginning to be roused by the unfairness, and astorm might have ensued had not Mr. Randolph unintentionally turned thewhole proceedings from tragedy to farce. 

Indignant at Raeburn's accusation, he sprung to his feet and began avigorous protest. 

"Mr. Chairman, I denounce my opponent as a liar. His accusation isutterly false. I deny the allegation, and I scorn the alligator--"

He was interrupted by a shout of laughter, the whole assembly wasconvulsed, even Erica's anger changed to mirth. 

"Fit for 'Punch, '" she whispered to Brian, her face all beaming withmerriment. 

Raeburn, whose grave face had also relaxed into a smile, suddenly stoodup, and, with a sort of dry Scotch humor, remarked:

"My enemies have compared me to many obnoxious things, but never tilltonight have I been called a crocodile. Possibly Mr. Randolph has beenreading of the crocodiles recently dissected at Paris. It has beendiscovered that they are almost brainless, and, being without reason, are probably animated by a violent instinct of destruction. I believe, however, that the power of their 'jaw' is unsurpassed. "

Then, amid shouts of laughter and applause, he sat down again, leavingthe field to the much discomfited Mr. Randolph. 

Much harm had been done that evening to the cause of Christianity. Thesympathies of the audience could not be with the weak and unmannerly Mr. Randolph; they were Englishmen, and were, of course, inclined to sidewith the man who had been unjustly dealt with, who, moreover, had reallyspoken to them--had touched their very hearts. 

The field was practically lost when, to the surprise of all, anotherspeaker came forward. Erica, who knew that their side had had the bestof it, felt a thrill of admiration when she saw Charles Osmond moveslowly to the front of the platform. She was very tired, but out of asort of gratitude for his friendliness, a readiness to do him honor, she strained her energies to take down his speech verbatim. It was nota long one, it was hardly, perhaps, to be called a speech at all, it wasrather as if the man had thrown his very self into the breach made bythe unhappy wrangle of the evening. 

He spoke of the universal brotherhood and of the wrong done to itby bitterness and strife; he stood there as the very incarnation ofbrotherliness, and the people, whether they agreed with him or not, loved him. In the place where the religion of Christ had been reviledas well by the Christians as by the atheist, he spoke of the revealerof the Father, and a hush fell on the listening men; he spoke of theFounder of the great brotherhood, and by the very reality, by the fervorof his convictions, touched a new chord in many a heart. It was no timefor argument, the meeting was almost over; he scarcely attempted toanswer to many of the difficulties and objections raised by Raeburnearlier in the evening. But there was in his ten minutes' speech thewhole essence of Christianity, the spirit of loving sacrifice toself, the strength of an absolute certainty which no argument, howeverlogical, can shake, the extraordinary power which breathes in theassertion: "I KNOW Him whom I have believed. "

To more than one of Raeburn's followers there came just the slightestagitation of doubt, the questioning whether these things might not be. For the first time in her life the question began to stir in Erica'sheart. She had heard many advocates of Christianity, and had regardedthem much as we might regard Buddhist missionaries speaking of areligion that had had its day and was now only fit to be discarded, orperhaps studied as an interesting relic of the past, about which in itslater years many corruptions had gathered. 

Raeburn, being above all things a just man, had been determined to giveher mind no bias in favor of his own views, and as a child he had lefther perfectly free. But there was a certain Scotch proverb which he didnot call to mind, that "As the auld cock crows the young cock learns. "When the time came at which he considered her old enough really to studythe Bible for herself, she had already learned from bitter experiencethat Christianity--at any rate, what called itself Christianity--was thereligion whose votaries were constantly slandering and ill-treatingher father, and that all the privations and troubles of their life weredirectly or indirectly due to it. She, of course, identified the conductof the most unfriendly and persecuting with the religion itself; itcould hardly be otherwise. 

But tonight as she toiled away, bravely acting up to her lights, taking down the opponent's speech to the best of her abilities, thoughpredisposed to think it all a meaningless rhapsody, the faintest attemptat a question began to take shape in her mind. It did not formitself exactly into words, but just lurked there like acloud-shadow--"supposing Christianity were true?"

All doubt is pain. Even this faint beginning of doubt in her creed madeErica dreadfully uncomfortable. Yet she could not regret that CharlesOsmond had spoken, even though she imagined him to be greatly mistaken, and feared that that uncomfortable question might have been suggestedto others among the audience. She could not wish that the speech hadnot been made, for it had revealed the nobility of the man, hisbroad-hearted love, and she instinctively reverenced all the reallygreat and good, however widely different their creeds. 

Brian tried in vain to read her thoughts, but as soon as the meeting wasover her temporary seriousness vanished, and she was once more almost achild again, ready to be amused by anything. She stood for a few minutestalking to the two Osmonds; then, catching sight of an acquaintancea little way off, she bade them a hasty good night, much to Brian'schagrin, and hurried forward with a warmth of greeting which he couldonly hope was appreciated by the thickset, honest-looking mechanic whowas the happy recipient. When they left the hall she was still deep inconversation with him. 

The fates were kind, however, to Brian that day; they were just too latefor a train, and before the next one arrived, Raeburn and Erica wereseen slowly coming down the steps, and in another minute had joinedthem on the platform. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell into an amicablediscussion, and Brian, to his great satisfaction, was left to anuninterrupted tete-a-tete with Erica. There had been no furtherdemonstration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the anxiety was over, was ready to make fun of Mr. Randolph and his band, checking herselfevery now and then for fear of hurting her companion, but breakingforth again and again into irresistible merriment as she recalled the"alligator" incident and other grotesque utterances. All too soon theyreached their destination. There was still, however, a ten minutes' walkbefore them, a walk which Brian never forgot. The wind was high, and itseemed to excite Erica; he could always remember exactly how she looked, her eyes bright and shining, her short, auburn hair, all blown about bythe wind, one stray wave lying across the quaint little sealskin hat. Heremembered, too, how, in the middle of his argument, Raeburn had steppedforward and had wrapped a white woolen scarf more closely round thechild, securing the fluttering ends. Brian would have liked to do ithimself had he dared, and yet it pleased him, too, to see the father'sthoughtfulness; perhaps in that "touch of nature, " he, for the firsttime, fully recognized his kinship with the atheist. 

Erica talked to him in the meantime with a delicious, childlikefrankness, gave him an enthusiastic account of her friend, Hazeldine, the working man whom he had seen her speaking to, and unconsciouslyreveled in her free conversation a great deal of the life she led, abusy, earnest, self-denying life Brian could see. When they reached theplace of their afternoon's encounter, she alluded merrily to what shecalled the "charge of umbrellas. "

"Who would have thought, now, that in a few hours' time we should havelearned to know each other!" she exclaimed. "It has been altogether thevery oddest day, a sort of sandwich of good and bad, two bits of thedry bread of persecution, put in between, you and Mr. Osmond and mybeautiful new Longfellow. "

Brian could not help laughing at the simile, and was not a littlepleased to hear the reference to his book; but his amusement was soondispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that minute they happenedto pass an undertaker's cart which was standing at the door of one ofthe houses; a coffin was born across the pavement in front of them. Erica, with a quick exclamation, put her hand on his arm and shrank backto make room for the bearers to pass. Looking down at her, he saw thatshe was quite pale. The coffin was carried into the house and theypassed on. 

"How I do hate seeing anything like that!" she exclaimed. Then lookingback and up to the windows of the house: "Poor people! I wonder whetherthey are very sad. It seems to make all the world dark when one comesacross such things. Father thinks it is good to be reminded of theend, that it makes one more eager to work, but he doesn't even wish foranything after death, nor do any of the best people I know. It issilly of me, but I never can bear to think of quite coming to an end, Isuppose because I am not so unselfish as the others. "

"Or may it not be a natural instinct, which is implanted in all, whichperhaps you have not yet crushed by argument. "

Erica shook her head. 

"More likely to be a little bit of one of my covenanting ancestorscoming out in me. Still, I own that the hope of the hereafter is the onepoint in which you have the better of it. Life must seem very easy ifyou believe that all will be made up to you and all wrong set rightafter you are dead. You see we have rather hard measure here, and don'texpect anything at all by and by. But all the same, I am always ratherashamed of this instinct, or selfishness, or Scottish inheritance, whichever it is!"

"Ashamed! Why should you be?"

"It is a sort of weakness, I think, which strong characters like myfather are without. You see he cares so much for every one, and thinksso much of making the world a little less miserable in this generation, but most of my love is for him and for my mother; and so when I think ofdeath--of their death--" she broke off abruptly. 

"Yet do not call it selfishness, " said Brian, with a slightly chokedfeeling, for there had been a depth of pain in Erica's tone. "My father, who has just that love of humanity of which you speak, has still themost absolute belief in--yes, and longing for--immortality. It is noselfishness in him. "

"I am sure it is not, " said Erica, warmly, "I shouldn't think he couldbe selfish in any way. I am glad he spoke tonight; it does one good tohear a speech like that, even if one doesn't agree with it. I wishthere were a few more clergymen like him, then perhaps the tolerance andbrotherliness he spoke of might become possible. But it must be a longway off, or it would not seem such an unheard-of thing that I shouldbe talking like this to you. Why, it is the first time in my wholelife that I have spoken to a Christian except on the most every-daysubjects. "

"Then I hope you won't let it be the last, " said Brian. 

"I should like to know Mr. Osmond better, " said Erica, "for you know itseems very extraordinary to me that a clever scientific man can speakas he spoke tonight. I should like to know how you reconcile all thecontradictions, how you can believe what seems to me so unlikely, howeven if you do believe in a God you can think Him good while the worldis what it is. If there is a good God why doesn't He make us all knowHim, and end all the evil and cruelty?"

Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar gas-lit street, the usualnumber of passengers, the usual care-worn or vice-worn faces passing by, damp pavements, muddy roads, fresh winter wind, all seemed so natural, but to talk of the deepest things in heaven and earth was so unnatural. He was a very reserved man, but looking down at the eager, questioningface beside him his reserve all at once melted. He spoke very quietly, but in a voice which showed Erica that he was, at least, as sheexpressed it "honestly deluded. " Evidently he did from his very heartbelieve what he said. 

"But how are we to judge what is best?" he replied. "My belief is thatGod is slowly and gradually educating the world, not forcing it onunnaturally, but drawing it on step by step, making it work out its ownlessons as the best teachers do with their pupils. To me the idea of asteady progression, in which man himself may be a co-worker with God, isfar more beautiful than the conception of a Being who does not work bynatural laws at all, but arbitrarily causes this and that to be or notto be. "

"But then if your God is educating the world, He is educating many ofus in ignorance of Himself, in atheism. How can that be good or right?Surely you, for instance, must be rather puzzled when you come acrossatheists, if you believe in a perfect God, and think atheism the mostfearful mistake possible?"

"If I could not believe that God can, and does, educate some of usthrough atheism, I should indeed be miserable, " said Brian, with athrill of pain in his voice which startled Erica. "But I do believe thateven atheism, even blank ignorance of Him, may be a stage through whichalone some of us can be brought onward. The noblest man I ever knewpassed through that state, and I can't think he would have been half theman he is if he had not passed through it. "

"I have only known two or three people who from atheists became theists, and they were horrid, " said Erica, emphatically. "People always arespiteful to the side they have left. "

"You could not say that of my friend, " said Brian, musingly, "I wish youcould meet him. "

They had reached the entrance to Guilford Terrace, Raeburn and CharlesOsmond overtook them, and the conversation ended abruptly. Perhapsbecause Erica had made no answer to the last remark, and was consciousof a touch of malice in her former speech, she put a little additionalwarmth into her farewell. At any rate, there was that which touchedBrian's very heart in the frank innocence of her hand clasp, in thesweet yet questioning eyes that were raised to his. 

He turned away, happier and yet sadder than he had ever been in hislife. Not a word passed between him and his father as they crossed thesquare, but when they reached home they instinctively drew together overthe study fire. There was a long silence even then, broken at last byCharles Osmond. 

"Well, my son?" he said. 

"I cannot see how I can be of the least use to her, " said Brian, abruptly, as if his father had been following the whole of his train ofthought, which, indeed, to a certain extent, he had. 

"Was this afternoon your first meeting?"

"Our first speaking. I have seen her many times, but only today realizedwhat she is. "

"Well, your little Undine is very bewitching, and much more thanbewitching, true to the core and loyal and loving. If only the hardnessof her life does not embitter her, I think she will make a grand woman. "

"Tell me what you did this afternoon, " said Brian; "you must have beensome time with them. "

Charles Osmond told him all that had passed; then continued:

"She is, as I said, a fascinating, bright little Undine, inclined to bewillful, I should fancy, and with a sort of warmth and quickness abouther whole character, in many ways still a child, and yet in othersstrangely old for her years; on the whole I should say as fair aspecimen of the purely natural being as you would often meet with. Thespiritual part of her is, I fancy, asleep. "

"No, I fancy tonight has made it stir for the first time, " said Brian, and he told his father a little of what had passed between himself andErica. 

"And the Longfellow was, I suppose, from you, " said Charles Osmond. "Iwish you could have seen her delight over it. Words absolutely failedher. I don't think any one else noticed it, but, her own vocabularycoming to an end, she turned to ours, it was 'What HEAVENLY person canhave sent me this?'"

Brian smiled, but sighed too. 

"One talks of the spiritual side remaining untouched, " he said, "yet howis it ever to be otherwise than chained and fettered, while such menas that Randolph are recognized as the champions of our cause, whileinjustice and unkindness meet her at every turn, while it is somethingrare and extraordinary for a Christian to speak a kind word to her. Iftoday she has first realized that Christians need not necessarily behaveas brutes, I have realized a little what life is from her point ofview. "

"Then, realizing that perhaps you may help her, perhaps another chapterof the old legend may come true, and you may be the means of waking thespirit in your Undine. "

"I? Oh, no! How can you think of it! You or Donovan, perhaps, but eventhat idea seems to me wildly improbable. "

There was something in his humility and sadness which touched his fatherinexpressibly. 

"Well, " he said, after a pause, "if you are really prepared for all thesuffering this love must bring you, if you mean to take it, and cherishit, and live for it, even though it brings you no gain, but apparentpain and loss, then I think it can only raise both you and your Undine. "

Brian knew that not one man in a thousand would have spoken in such away; his father's unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had neverbeen before. Greatly as he had always reverenced and loved him, tonighthis love and reverence deepened unspeakably--the two were drawn nearerto each other than ever. 

It was not the habit in this house to make the most sacred ties of lifethe butt for ill-timed and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thoughtor spoke more reverently or with greater reserve of his lady love thandid Brian of Erica. He regarded himself now as one bound to do herservice, consecrated from that day forward as her loyal knight. 

CHAPTER V. Erica's Resolve

 Men are tattooed with their special beliefs like so many South Sea Islanders; but a real human heart, with Divine love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns of all earth's thousand tribes. O. Wendell Holmes. 

For the next fortnight Brian and Erica continued to pass each otherevery afternoon in Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the onlydifference was that now they greeted each other, that occasionally Brianwould be rendered happy for the rest of the day by some brief passingremark from his Undine, or by one of her peculiarly bright smiles. Oneday, however, she actually stopped; her face was radiant. 

"I must just tell you our good news, " she said. "My father has won hiscase, and has got heavy damages. "

"I am very glad, " said Brian. "It must be a great relief to you all tohave it over. "

"Immense! Father looks as if a ton's weight had been taken off his mind. Now I hope we shall have a little peace. "

With a hasty good bye she hurried on, an unusual elasticity in herlight footsteps. In Guilford Square she met a political friend of herfather's, and was brought once more to a standstill. This time it was alittle unwillingly, for M. Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at theirlast meeting had almost made her angry by talking of a friend of hisat Paris who offered untold advantages to any clever and well-educatedEnglish girl who wished to learn the language, and who would in returnteach her own. Erica had been made miserable by the mere suggestion thatsuch a situation would suit her; the slightest hint that it might bewell for her to go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest herfather might ever seriously think of the scheme. She had not quiteforgiven M. Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had notbeen gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit ofteasing. But today M. Noirol looked very grave. 

"You have heard our good news?" said Erica. "Now don't begin again aboutMadame Lemercier's school; I don't want to be made cross today of alldays, when I am so happy. "

"I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle, " said the Frenchman; buthe offered no congratulations, and there was something in his mannerwhich made Erica uneasy. 

"Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?" she asked quickly. 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 

"Who knows! It is an evil world, Mademoiselle Erica, as you will realizewhen you have lived in it as long as I have. But I detain you. Good bye. AU REVOIR!"

He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed on. 

Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross, hurried home. M. Noirol hadnot teased her today, but he had been inscrutable and tiresome, and hehad made her feel uneasy. She opened the front door, and went at once toher father's study, pausing for a moment at the sound of voices within. She recognized, however, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who wasspeaking, and without more delay she entered. Then in a moment sheunderstood why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom was speakingquickly and strongly, and there was a glow of anger on his face. Herfather was standing with his back to the mantlepiece, and there was asort of cold light in his eyes, which filled Erica with dismay. Neverin the most anxious days had she seen him look at once so angry, yet asweighed down with care. 

"What is the matter?" she questioned, breathlessly, instinctivelyturning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable. 

"The scamp of a Christian has gone bankrupt, " he said, referring tothe defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak veryintelligibly. 

"Mr. Cheale, you mean?" asked Erica. 

"The scoundrel! Yes! So not a farthing of costs and damages shall wesee! It is the most fiendish thing ever heard of!"

"Will the costs be very heavy?"

"Heavy! I should think they would indeed!" He named the probable sum; itseemed a fearful addition to the already existing burden of debts. 

A look of such pain and perplexity came over Erica's face that Raeburnfor the first time realizing what was passing in the room, drew hertoward him, his face softening, and the cold, angry light in his eyeschanging to sadness. 

"Never mind, my child, " he said, with a sigh. "'Tis a hard blow, but wemust bear up. Injustice won't triumph in the end. "

There was something in his voice and look which made Erica feeldreadfully inclined to cry; but that would have disgraced her forever inthe eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed his hand hard and triedto think of that far-distant future of which she had spoken to CharlesOsmond, when there would be no tiresome Christians and bigots andlawsuits. 

There was, however, one person in the house who was invariably therecipient of all the troubled confidences of others. In a very fewminutes Erica had left the study and was curled up beside hermother's couch, talking out unreservedly all her grief, and anger, andperplexity. 

Mrs. Raeburn, delicate and invalided as she was, had nevertheless agreat deal of influence, though perhaps neither Raeburn, nor Erica, norwarm-hearted Tom Craigie understood how much she did for them all. Shewas so unassuming, so little given to unnecessary speech, so reticent, that her life made very little show, while it had become so entirely amatter of course that every one should bring his private troubles toher that it would have seemed extraordinary not to meet with exactlythe sympathy and counsel needed. Today, however, even Mrs. Raeburn wasalmost too despondent to cheer the others. It comforted Erica to talkto her, but she could not help feeling very miserable as she saw theanxiety and sadness in her mother's face. 

"What more can we do, mother?" she questioned. "I can't think of asingle thing we can give up. "

"I really don't know, dear, " said her mother with a sigh. "We havenothing but the absolute necessaries of life now, except indeed youreducation at the High School, and that is a very trifling expense, andone which cannot be interfered with. "

Erica was easily depressed, like most high-spirited persons; but she wasnot used to seeing either her father or her mother despondent, and themere strangeness kept her from going down to the very deepest depths. She had the feeling that at least one of them must try to keep up. Yet, do what she would, that evening was one of the saddest and dreariest shehad ever spent. All the excitement of contest was over, and a sort ofdead weight of gloom seemed to oppress them. Raeburn was absolutelysilent. From the first Erica had never heard him complain, but hisanger, and afterward his intense depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom, her friend and play fellow, seemed changed this evening, grown somehowfrom a boy to a man; for there was a sternness about him which she hadnever seen before, and which made the days of their childhood seem faraway. And yet it was not so very long ago that she and Tom had been themost light-hearted and careless beings in the world, and had imaginedthe chief interest of life to consist in tending dormice, and tame rats, and silk worms! She wondered whether they could ever feel free again, whether they could ever enjoy their long Saturday afternoon rambles, orwhether this weight of care would always be upon them. 

With a very heavy heart she prepared her lessons for the next day, finding it hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and legalenactments in the time of King John, when the legal enactments of todaywere so much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting opposite to her, writing letters for Raeburn. Once, notwithstanding his grave looks, shehazarded a question. "Tom, " she said, shutting up her 'History of theEnglish People, ' "Tom, what do you think will happen?"

Tom looked across at her with angry yet sorrowful eyes. 

"I think, " he said, sternly, "that the chieftain will try to do the workof ten men at once, and will pay off these debts or die in the attempt. "

The "chieftain" was a favorite name among the Raeburnites for theirleader, and there was a great deal of the clan feeling among them. Themajority of them were earnest, hard-working, thoughtful men, and theirsociety was both powerful and well-organized, while their personaldevotion to Raeburn lent a vigor and vitality to the whole body whichmight otherwise have been lacking. Perhaps comparatively few wouldhave been enthusiastic for the cause of atheism had not that cause beenrepresented by a high-souled, self-denying man whom they loved with alltheir hearts. 

The dreary evening ended at length, Erica helped her mother to bed, andthen with slow steps climbed up to her little attic room. It was coldand comfortless enough, bare of all luxuries, but even here the wallswere lined with books, and Erica's little iron bedstead looked somewhatincongruous surrounded as it was with dingy-looking volumes, duskyold legal books, works of reference, books atheistical, theological, metaphysical, or scientific. On one shelf, amid this strangelyheterogeneous collection, she kept her own particular treasures--Brian'sLongfellow, one or two of Dickens's books which Tom had given her, andthe beloved old Grimm and Hans Andersen, which had been the friendsof her childhood and which for "old sakes' sake" she had never had theheart to sell. The only other trace of her in the strange little bedroomwas in a wonderful array of china animals on the mantlepiece. She was agreat animal lover, and, being a favorite with every one, she receivedmany votive offerings. Her shrine was an amusing one to look at. A greenchina frog played a tuneless guitar; a pensive monkey gazed with claspedhands and dreadfully human eyes into futurity; there were sagaciouslooking elephants, placid rhinoceroses, rampant hares, two pug dogsclasped in an irrevocable embrace, an enormous lobster, a diminutivepolar bear, and in the center of all a most evil-looking jackdaw abouthalf an inch high. 

But tonight the childish side of Erica was in abeyance; the cares ofwomanhood seemed gathering upon her. She put out her candle and sat downin the dark, racking her brain for some plan by which to relieve herfather and mother. Their life was growing harder and harder. Itseemed to her that poverty in itself was bearable enough, but that theever-increasing load of debt was not bearable. As long as she couldremember, it had always been like a mill-stone tied about their necks, and the ceaseless petty economies and privations seemed of little avail;she felt very much as if she were one of the Danaids, doomed forever topour water into a vessel with a hole in it. 

Yet in one sense she was better off than many, for these debts were notselfish debts--no one had ever known Raeburn to spend an unnecessarysixpence on himself; all this load had been incurred in the defense ofwhat he considered the truth--by his unceasing struggles for liberty. She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer in what she regarded asthe sacred cause; but in spite of that she was almost in despair thisevening, the future looked so hopelessly black. 

Tom's words rang in her head--"The chieftain will try to do the work often men!" What if he overworked himself as he had done once a few yearsago? What if he died in the attempt? She wished Tom had not spoken sostrongly. In the friendly darkness she did not try to check the tearswhich would come into her eyes at the thought. Something must be done!She must in some way help him! And then, all at once, there flashed intoher mind M. Noirol's teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris. Here was a way in which, free of all expense, she might finish hereducation, might practically earn her living! In this way she mightindeed help to lighten the load, but it would be at the cost of absoluteself-sacrifice. She must leave home, and father and mother, and country!

Erica was not exactly selfish, but she was very young. The thought ofthe voluntary sacrifice seemed quite unbearable, she could not make upher mind to it. 

"Why should I give up all this? Why should prejudice and bigotry spoilmy whole life?" she thought, beginning to pace up and down the room withquick, agitated steps. "Why should we suffer because that wretch hasgone bankrupt? It is unfair, unjust, it can't be right. "

She leaned her arms on the window sill and looked out into the silentnight. The stars were shining peacefully enough, looking down on thisworld of strife and struggle; Erica grew a little calmer as she looked;Nature, with its majesty of calmness, seemed to quiet her troubled heartand "sweep gradual-gospels in. "

From some recess of memory there came to her some half-enigmaticalwords; they had been quoted by Charles Osmond in his speech, but she didnot remember where she had heard them, only they began to ring in herears now:

"There is no gain except by loss, There is no life except by death, Norglory but by bearing shame, Nor justice but by taking blame. "

She did not altogether understand the verse, but there was a truth init which could hardly fail to come home to one who knew what persecutionmeant. What if the very blame and injustice of the present broughtin the future reign of justice! She seemed to hear her father's voicesaying again, "We must bear up, child; injustice won't triumph in theend. "

"There is no gain except by loss!"

What if her loss of home and friends brought gain to the world! That wasa thought which brought a glow of happiness to her even in the midst ofher pain. There was, after all, much of the highest Christianity abouther, though she would have been very much vexed if any one had toldher so, because Christianity meant to her narrow-mindedness instead ofbrotherly love. However it might be, there was no denying that the childof the great teacher of atheism had grasped the true meaning of life, had grasped it, and was prepared to act on it too. She had always livedwith those who were ready to spend all in the promotion of the generalgood; and all that was true, all that was noble in her creed, all thathad filled her with admiration in the lives of those she loved, came toher aid now. 

She went softly down the dark staircase to Raeburn's study; it was late, and, anxious not to disturb the rest of the house, she opened the doornoiselessly and crept in. Her father was sitting at his desk writing;he looked very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur about his ruggedface. He was absorbed in his work and did not hear her, and for a minuteshe stood quite still watching him, realizing with pain and yet witha happy pride how greatly she loved him. Her heart beat fast at thethought of helping him, lightening his load even a little. 

"Father, " she said, softly. 

Raeburn was the sort of a man who could not be startled, but he lookedup quickly, apparently returning from some speculative region with aslight effort. He was the most practical of men, and yet for a minute hefelt as if he were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him, paleand beautiful, with a sort of heroic light about her whole face whichtransformed her from a merry child to a high-souled woman. Instinctivelyhe rose to speak to her. 

"I will not disturb you for more than a minute, father, " she said, "itis only that I have thought of a way in which I think I could help youif you would let me. "

"Well, dear, what is it?" said Raeburn, still watching half dreamily theexceeding beauty of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense of dreadchilled his heart. Was anything too hard or high for her to propose? Helistened without a word to her account of M. Noirol's Parisian scheme, to her voluntary suggestion that she should go into exile for two years. At the end he merely put a brief question. "Are you ready to bear twoyears of loneliness?"

"I am ready to help you, " she said, with a little quiver in her voiceand a cloud of pain in her eyes. 

Raeburn turned away from her and began to pace up and down the littleroom, his eyes not altogether free from tears, for, pachydermatous as hewas accounted by his enemies, this man was very tender over his child, he could hardly endure to see her pain. Yet after all, though she hadgiven him a sharp pang, she had brought him happiness which any fathermight envy. He came back to her, his stern face inexpressibly softened. 

"And I am ready to be helped, my child; it shall be as you say. "

There was something in his voice and in the gentle acceptance of helpfrom one so strong and self-reliant which touched Erica more than anypraise or demonstrative thanks could have done. They were going to worktogether, he had promised that she should fight side by side with him. 

"Lawsuits may ruin us, " said Raeburn, "but, after all, the evil has away of helping out the good. " He put his arm round her and kissed her. "You have taught me, little one, how powerless and weak are these pettypersecutions. They can only prick and sting us! Nothing can really hurtus while we love the truth and love each other. "

That was the happiest moment Erica had ever known, already her loss hadbrought a rapturous gain. 

"I shall never go to sleep tonight, " she said. "Let me help you withyour letters. "

Raeburn demurred a little, but yielded to her entreaties, and for thenext two hours the father and daughter worked in silence. The bitternesswhich had lurked in the earlier part of the pamphlet that Raeburn had inhand was quite lacking in its close; the writer had somehow been liftedinto a higher, purer atmosphere, and if his pen flew less rapidly overthe paper, it at any rate wrote words which would long outlive the mereoverflow of an angry heart. 

Coming back to the world of realities at last somewhere in the smallhours, he found his fire out, a goodly pile of letters ready forhis signature, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her chair. Reproaching himself for having allowed her to sit up, he took her in hisstrong arms as though she had been a mere baby, and carried her upto her room so gently that she never woke. The next morning she foundherself so swathed in plaids and rugs and blankets that she could hardlymove, and, in spite of a bad headache, could not help beginning the daywith a hearty laugh. 

Raeburn was not a man who ever let the grass grow under his feet, hisdecisions were made with thought, but with very rapid thought, and hisaction was always prompt. His case excited a good deal of attention; butlong before the newspapers had ceased to wage war either for or againsthim, long before the weekly journals had ceased to teem with lettersrelating to the lawsuit, he had formed his plans for the future. Hishome was to be completely broken up, Erica was to go to Paris, his wifewas to live with his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and her son, Tom, who hadagreed to keep on the lodgings in Guilford Terrace, while for himselfhe had mapped out such a programme of work as could only have beenundertaken by a man of "Titanic energy" and "Herculean strength, "epithets which even the hostile press invariably bestowed on him. Howgreat the sacrifice was to him few people knew. As we have said before, the world regarded him as a target, and would hardly have believed thathe was in reality a man of the gentlest tastes, as fond of his home asany man in England, a faithful friend and a devoted father, and perhapsall the more dependent on the sympathies of his own circle because ofthe bitter hostility he encountered from other quarters. But he made hisplans resolutely, and said very little about them either one way or theother, sometimes even checking Erica when she grumbled for him, or gavevent to her indignation with regard to the defendant. 

"We work for freedom, little one, " he used to say; "and it is an honorto suffer in the cause of liberty. "

"But every one says you will kill yourself with overwork, " said Erica, "and especially when you are in America. "

'"They don't know what stuff I'm made of, " said Raeburn; "and, even ifit should use me up, what then? It's better to wear out than to rustout, as a wise man once remarked. "

"Yes, " said Erica, rather faintly. 

"But I've no intention of wearing out just yet, " said Raeburn, cheerfully. "You need not be afraid, little son Eric; and, if at the endof those two years you do come back to find me gray and wrinkled, whatwill that matter so long as we are free once more. There's a good timecoming; we'll have the coziest little home in London yet. "

"With a garden for you to work in, " said Erica, brightening up like achild at the castle in the air. "And we'll keep lots of animals, andnever bother again about money all our lives. "

Raeburn smiled at her ides of felicity--no cares, and plenty of dogsand cats! He did not anticipate any haven of rest at the end of the twoyears for himself. He knew that his life must be a series of conflictsto the very end. Still he hoped for relief from the load of debt, andlooked forward to the reestablishment of his home. 

Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long, but he scarcely saw Erica;the Christmas holidays began, and he no longer met her each afternoonin Gower Street, while the time drew nearer and nearer for her departurefor Paris. At length, on the very last day, it chanced that they wereonce more thrown together. 

Raeburn was a great lover of flowers, and he very often receivedfloral offerings from his followers. It so happened that some beautifulhot-house flowers had been sent to him from a nursery garden one day inJanuary, and, unwilling to keep them all, he had suggested that Ericashould take some to the neighboring hospitals. Now there were twohospitals in Guilford Square; Erica felt much more interested in thechildren's hospital than in the one for grown-up people; but, wishing tobe impartial she arranged a basketful for each, and well pleased to haveanything to give, hastened on her errand. Much to her delight, her firstbasket of flowers was not only accepted very gratefully, but the ladysuperintendent took her over the hospital, and let her distribute theflowers among the children. She was very fond of children, and was ashappy as she could be passing up and down among the little beds, whileher bright manner attracted the little ones, and made them unusuallyaffectionate and responsive. 

Happy at having been able to give them pleasure, and full of tender, womanly thoughts, she crossed the square to another small hospital; shewas absorbed in pitiful, loving humanity, had forgotten altogetherthat the world counted her as a heretic, and wholly unprepared for whatawaited her, she was shown into the visitors' room and asked to give hername. Not only was Raeburn too notorious a name to pass muster, but thehead of the hospital knew Erica by sight, and had often met her out ofdoors with her father. She was a stiff, narrow-minded, uncompromisingsort of person, and, in her own words was "determined to have nofellowship with the works of darkness. " How she could considerbright-faced Erica, with her loving thought for others and her freegift, a "work of darkness, " it is hard to understand. She was not at alldisposed, however, to be under any sort of obligation to an atheist, andthe result of it was that after a three minutes' interview, Erica foundherself once more in the square, with her flowers still in her hand, "declined WITHOUT thanks. "

No one ever quite knew what the superintendent had said to her, butapparently the rebuff had been very hard to bear. Not content withdeclining any fellowship with the poor little "work of darkness, " shehad gone on in accordance with the letter of the text to reprove her;and Erica left the house with burning cheeks, and with a tumult of angryfeeling stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry to know orcare what she was doing; she walked down the quiet square in the veryopposite direction to "Persecution Alley, " and might have walked on foran indefinite time had not some one stopped her. 

"I was hoping to see you before you left, " said a pleasant quiet voiceclose by her. She looked up and saw Charles Osmond. 

Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she became aware that she wastrembling from head to foot. A little delicate, sensitive thing, theunsparing censure and the rude reception she had just met with had quiteupset her. 

Charles Osmond retained her hand in his strong clasp, and lookedquestioningly into her bright, indignant eyes. 

"What is the matter, my child?" he asked. 

"I am only angry, " said Erica, rather breathlessly; "hurt and angrybecause one of your bigots has been rude to me. "

"Come in and tell me all about it, " said Charles Osmond; and therewas something so irresistible in his manner that Erica at once allowedherself to be led into one of the tall, old-fashioned houses, and takeninto a comfortable and roomy study, the nicest room she had ever beenin. It was not luxurious; indeed the Turkey carpet was shabby andthe furniture well worn, but it was home-like, and warm and cheerful, evidently a room which was dear to its owner. Charles Osmond made hersit down in a capacious arm chair close to the fire. 

"Well, now, who was the bigot?" he said, in a voice that would have wonthe confidence of a flint. 

Erica told as much of the story as she could bring herself to repeat, quite enough to show Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may bewrought by tactless modern Christianity. He looked down very sorrowfullyat the eager, expressive face of the speaker; it was at once very whiteand very pink, for the child was sorely wounded as well as indignant. She was evidently, however, a little vexed with herself for feeling theinsult so keenly. 

"It is very stupid of me, " she said laughing a little; "it is time I wasused to it; but I never can help shaking in this silly way when any oneis rude to us. Tom laughs at me, and says I am made on wire springs likea twelfth-cake butterfly! But it is rather hard, isn't it, to be shutout from everything, even from giving?"

"I think it is both hard and wrong, " said Charles Osmond. "But we do notall shut you out. "

"No, " said Erica. "You have always been kind, you are not a bit likea Christian. Would you"--she hesitated a little--"would you take theflowers instead?"

It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly winning. Charles Osmond wastouched and gratified. 

"They will be a great treat to us, " he said. "My mother is very fond offlowers. Will you come upstairs and see her? We shall find afternoon teagoing on, I expect. "

So the rejected flowers found a resting place in the clergyman's house;and Brian, coming in from his rounds, was greeted by a sight whichmade his heart beat at double time. In the drawing room beside hisgrandmother sat Erica, her little fur hat pushed back, her gloves off, busily arranging Christmas roses and red camellias. Her anger had diedaway, she was talking quite merrily. It seemed to Brian more like abeautiful dream than a bit of every-day life, to have her sitting thereso naturally in his home; but the note of pain was struck before long. 

"I must go home, " she said. "This is my last day, you know. I am goingto Paris tomorrow. "

A sort of sadness seemed to fall on them at the words; only gentle Mrs. Osmond said, cheerfully:

"You will come to see us again when you come back, will you not?"

And then, with the privilege of the aged, she drew down the young, freshface to hers and kissed it. 

"You will let me see you home, " said Brian. "It is getting dark. "

Erica laughingly protested that she was well used to taking care ofherself, but it ended in Brian's triumphing. So together they crossedthe quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily enough, but as theyreached the narrow entrance to Guilford Terrace a shadow stole over herface. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "this is the last time I shall come home for twowhole years. "

"You go for so long, " said Brian, stifling a sigh. "You won't forgetyour English friends?"

"Do you mean that you count yourself our friend?" asked Erica, smiling. 

"If you will let me. "

"That is a funny word to use, " she replied, laughing. "You see we aretreated as outlaws generally. I don't think any one ever said 'will youlet' to me before. This is our house; thank you for seeing me home. "Then with a roguish look in her eyes, she added demurely, but with aslight emphasis on the last word, "Good bye, my friend. "

Brian turned away sadly enough; but he had not gone far when he heardflying footsteps, and looking back saw Erica once more. 

"Oh, I just came to know whether by any chance you want a kitten, " shesaid; "I have a real beauty which I want to find a nice home for. "

Of course Brian wanted a kitten at once; one would have imagined by theeagerness of his manner that he was devoted to the whole feline tribe. 

"Well, then, will you come in and see it?" said Erica. "He really isa very nice kitten, and I shall go away much happier if I can see himsettled in life first. "

She took him in, introduced him to her mother, and ran off in search ofthe cat, returning in a few minutes with a very playful-looking tabby. 

"There he is, " she said, putting the kitten on the table with an air ofpride. "I don't believe he has an equal in all London. 

"What do you call him?" asked Brian. 

"His name is St. Anthony, " said Erica. "Oh, I hope, by the bye, youwon't object to that; it was no disrespect to St. Anthony at all, butonly that he always will go and preach to my gold fish. We'll make himdo it now to show you. Come along Tony, and give them a sermon, there'sa good little kit!"

She put him on a side table, and he at once rested his front paws on alarge glass bowl and peered down at the gold fish with great curiosity. 

"I believe he would have drowned himself sooner or later, like Gray'scat, so I dare say it is a good thing for him to leave. You will be kindto him, won't you?"

Brian promised that he should be well attended to, and, indeed therewas little doubt that St. Anthony would from that day forth be lappedin luxury. He went away with his new master very contentedly, Ericafollowing them to the door with farewell injunctions. 

"And you'll be sure to butter his feet well or else he won't stay withyou. Good bye, dear Tony. Be a good little cat!"

Brian was pleased to have this token from his Undine, but at the sametime he could not help seeing that she cared much more about partingwith the kitten than about saying good bye to him. Well, it wassomething to have that lucky St. Anthony, who had been fondled andkissed. And after all it was Erica's very childishness and simplicitywhich made her so dear to him. 

As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with the thought of theseparation beginning to weigh upon her, went back to her mother. Theyknew that this was the last quiet time they would have together for manylong months. But last days are not good days for talking. They spokevery little. Every now and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some inquiryabout the packing or the journey, or would try to cheer the child byspeaking of the house they would have at the end of the two years. ButErica was not to be comforted; a dull pain was gnawing at her heart, and the present was not to be displaced by any visions of a goldenfuture. "If it were not for leaving you alone, mother, I shouldn't mindso much, " she said, in a choked voice. "But it seems to me that you havethe hardest part of all. "

"Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom, " said Mrs. Raeburn. 

"Aunt Jean is very kind, " said Erica, doubtfully. "But she doesn't knowhow to nurse people. Tom is the one hope, and he has promised alwaysto tell me the whole truth about you; so if you get worse, I shall comehome directly. "

"You mustn't grudge me my share of the work, " said Mrs. Raeburn. "Itwould make me very miserable if I did hinder you or your father. "

Erica sighed. "You and father are so dreadfully public-spirited! And yet, oh, mother! What does the whole world matter to me if I think you areuncomfortable, and wretched, and alone?"

"You will learn to think differently, dear, by and by, " said her mother, kissing the eager, troubled face. "And, when you fancy me lonely, youcan picture me instead as proud and happy in thinking of my brave littledaughter who has gone into exile of her own accord to help the cause oftruth and liberty. "

They were inspiriting words, and they brought a glow to Erica's face;she choked down her own personal pain. No religious martyr went throughthe time of trial more bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter livedthrough the next four and twenty hours. She never forgot even the mosttrivial incident of that day, it seemed burned in upon her brain. Thedreary waking on the dark winter morning, the hurried farewells to heraunt and Tom, the last long embrace from her mother, the drive to thestation, her father's recognition on the platform, the rude staring andruder comments to which they were subjected, then the one supreme wrenchof parting, the look of pain in her father's face, the trembling ofhis voice, the last long look as the train moved off, and the utterloneliness of all that followed. Then came dimmer recollections, notless real, but more confused; of a merry set of fellow passengers whowere going to enjoy themselves in the south of France; of a certainlittle packet which her father had placed in her hand, and which provedto be "Mill on Liberty;" of her eager perusal of the first two or threechapters; of the many instances of the "tyranny of the majority" whichshe had been able to produce, not without a certain satisfaction. Andafterward more vividly she could recall the last look at England, thedreary arrival at Boulogne, the long weary railway journey, and thefriendly reception at Mme Lemercier's school. No one could deny that hernew life had been bravely begun. 

CHAPTER VI. Paris

 But we wake in the young morning when the light is breaking forth; And look out on its misty gleams, as if the moon were full; And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of earth Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule. Hilda among the Broken Gods. 

Not unfrequently the most important years of a life, the years whichtell most on the character, are unmarked by any notable events. Asteady, orderly routine, a gradual progression, perseverance in hardwork, often do more to educate and form than a varied and eventful life. Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous and quiet as the lifeof the secularist's daughter could possibly be. There came to her, ofcourse, from the distance the echoes of her father's strife; but she wasfar removed from it all, and there was little to disturb her mind in thequiet Parisian school. There is no need to dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief description of her surroundings will be sufficient toshow the sort of atmosphere in which she lived. 

The school was a large one, and consisted principally of Frenchprovincial girls, sent to Paris to finish their education. Some of themErica liked exceedingly; every one of them was to her a curious andinteresting study. She liked to hear them talk about their home life, and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive remarks aboutreligion. Of course she was on her honor not to enter into discussionswith them, and they regarded all English as heretics, and did nottrouble themselves to distinguish between the different grades. Butthere was nothing to prevent her from observing and listening, andwith some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the"Premiere Communion, " remarks about the various services, or lamentsover the confession papers. The girls went to confession once a month, and there was always a day in which they had to prepare and write outtheir misdemeanors. One day, a little, thin, delicate child from thesouth of France came up to Erica with her confession in her hand. 

"Dear, good Erica, " she said, wearily, "have the kindness to read thisand to correct my mistakes. "

Erica took the little thing on her knee, and began to read the paper. Itwas curiously spelled. Before very long she came to the sentence, "J'aitrop mange. "

"Why, Ninette, " exclaimed Erica, "you hardly eat enough to feed asparrow; it is nonsense to put that. "

"Ah, but it was a fast day, " signed Ninette. "And I felt hungry, and didreally eat more than I need have. "

Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hopethat the priest would see the pale, thin face of the little penitent, and realize the ludicrousness of the confession. 

Another time all the girls had been to some special service; on theirreturn, she asked what it had been about. 

"Oh, " remarked a bright-faced girl, "it was about the seven joys--or theseven sorrows--of Mary. "

"Do you mean to say you don't know whether it was very solemn or veryjoyful?" asked Erica, astonished and amused. 

"I am really not sure, " said the girl, with the most placidgood-tempered indifference. 

On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Erica was notfavorably impressed with Roman Catholicism. 

She was a great favorite with all the girls; but, though she was verypatient and persevering, she did not succeed in making any of themfluent English speakers, and learned their language far better than theylearned hers. Her three special friends were not among the pupils, butamong the teachers. Dear old Mme. Lemercier, with her good-humored blackeyes, her kind, demonstrative ways, and her delightful stories aboutthe time of the war and the siege, was a friend worth having. So was herhusband, M. Lemercier the journalist. He was a little dried-up man, witha fierce black mustache; he was sarcastic and witty, and he wouldtalk politics by the hour together to any one who would listen to him, especially if they would now and then ask a pertinent and intelligentquestion which gave him scope for an oration. 

Erica made a delightful listener, for she was always anxious to learnand to understand, and before long she was quite AU FAIT, and understooda great deal about that exceedingly complicated thing, the Frenchpolitical system. M. Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little man, withvery strong convictions; he had been exiled as a communist but had nowreturned, and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer in one of theadvanced Republican journals. He and his wife became very fond of Erica, Mme. Lemercier loving her for her brightness and readiness to help, and monsieur for her beauty and her quickness of perception. It wassurprising and gratifying to meet with a girl who, without being a femmesavante, was yet capable of understanding the difference between theExtreme Left and the Left Center, and who took a real interest in whatwas passing in the world. 

But Erica's greatest friend was a certain Fraulein Sonnenthal, theGerman governess. She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and by no meansbrilliantly clever, but there was something in her unselfishness and inher unassuming humility that won Erica's heart. She never would hear aword against the fraulein. 

"Why do you care so much for Fraulein Sonnenthal?" she was often asked. "She seems uninteresting and dull to us. "

"I love her because she is so good, " was Erica's invariable reply. 

She and the fraulein shared a bedroom, and many were the arguments theyhad together. The effect of being separated from her own people was, very naturally, to make Erica a more devoted secularist. She wasexceedingly enthusiastic for what she considered the truth and notunfrequently grieved and shocked the Lutheran fraulein by the vehemenceof her statements. Very often they would argue far on into the night;they never quarreled, however hot the dispute, but the fraulein oftenhad a sore time of it, for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's daughter was wellup in all the debatable points, and she had, moreover, a good deal ofher father's rapidity of thought and gift of speech. She was alwaysgenerous, however, and the fraulein had in some respects the advantageof her, for they spoke in German. 

One scene in that little bedroom Erica never forgot. They had goneto bed one Easter-eve, and had somehow fallen into a long and stormyargument about the resurrection and the doctrine of immortality. Erica, perhaps because she was conscious of the "weakness" she had confessedto Brian Osmond, argued very warmly on the other side; the poor littlefraulein was grieved beyond measure, and defended her faith gallantly, though, as she feared, very ineffectually. Her arguments seemedaltogether extinguished by Erica's remorseless logic; she was not nearlyso clever, and her very earnestness seemed to trip her up and make allher sentences broken and incomplete. They discussed the subject tillErica was hoarse, and at last from very weariness she fell asleep whilethe Lutheran was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul. 

She slept for two or three hours; when she woke, the room was floodedwith silvery moonlight, the wooden cross which hung over the German'sbed stood out black and distinct, but the bed was empty. Erica lookedround the room uneasily, and saw a sight which she never forgot. Thefraulein was kneeling beside the window, and even the cold moonlightcould not chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her face. She was aplain, ordinary little woman, but her face was absolutely transformed;there was something so beautiful and yet so unusual in her expressionthat Erica could not speak or move, but lay watching her almostbreathlessly. The spiritual world about which they had been speakingmust be very real indeed to Thekla Sonnenthal! Was it possible thatthis was the work of delusion? While she mused, her friend rose, camestraight to her bedside, and bent over her with a look of such love andtenderness that Erica, though not generally demonstrative, could notresist throwing her arms round her neck. 

"Dear Sunnyvale! You look just like your name!" she exclaimed, "allbrightness and humility! What have you been doing to grow so likeMurillo's Madonna?"

"I thought you were asleep, " said the fraulein. "Good night, Herzolattchen, or rather good morning, for the Easter day has begun. "

Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for saying nothing more definite, but in the ordinary sense of the word she did not have a good night, for long after Thekla Sonnenthal was asleep, and dreaming of her Germanhome, Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking of the faith whichto some was such an intense reality. Had there been anything excited orunreal about her companion's manner, she would not have thoughttwice about it; but her tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her veryremarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal was strangely devoid ofimagination; she was a matter-of-fact little person, not at all a likelysubject for visions and delusions. Erica was perplexed. Once more therecame to her that uncomfortable question: "Supposing Christianity weretrue?"

The moonlight paled and the Easter morn broke, and still she tossed toand fro, haunted by doubts which would not let her sleep. But by and byshe returned to the one thing which was absolutely certain, namely, thather German friend was lovable and to be loved, whatever her creed. 

And, since Erica's love was of the practical order, it prompted herto get up early, dress noiselessly, and steal out of the room withoutwaking her companion; then, with all the church bells ringing and thedevout citizens hurrying to mass, she ran to the nearest flower stall, spent one of her very few half-francs on the loveliest white rose to behad, and carried it back as an Easter offering to the fraulein. 

It was fortunate in every way that Erica had the little German lady forher friend, for she would often have fared badly without some one tonurse and befriend her. 

She was very delicate, and worked far too hard; for, besides all herwork in the school, she was preparing for an English examination whichshe had set her heart on trying as soon as she went home. Had it notbeen for Fraulein Sonnenthal, she would more than once have thoroughlyoverworked herself; and indeed as it was, the strain of that two yearstold severely on her strength. 

But the time wore on rapidly, as very fully occupied time always does, and Erica's list of days grew shorter and shorter, and the letters fromher mother were more and more full of plans for the life they would leadwhen she came home. The two years would actually end in January; Ericawas, however, to stay in Paris till the following Easter, partly tooblige Mme. Lemercier, partly because by that time her father hoped tobe in a great measure free from his embarrassments, able once more tomake a home for her. 

CHAPTER VII. What the New Year Brought

 A voice grows with the growing years; Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, Looks upward from her graves, and hears, "The Resurrection and the Life am I. "

 O love Divine, --whose constant beam Shines on the eyes that will not see, And waits to bless us, while we dream Thou leavest us because we turn from Thee!

 Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed Thou know'st, Wide as our need Thy favors fall; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all. Whittier

It was the eve of the new year, and great excitement prevailed in theLemerciers' house. Many of the girls whose homes were at a distance hadremained at school for the short winter holiday, and on this particularafternoon a number of them were clustered round the stove talking aboutthe festivities of the morrow and the presents they were likely to have. 

Erica, who was now a tall and very pretty girl of eighteen, was sittingon the hearth rug with Ninette on her lap; she was in very high spirits, and kept the little group in perpetual laughter, so much so indeed thatFraulein Sonnenthal had more than once been obliged to interfere, and doher best to quiet them. 

"How wild thou art, dear Erica?" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

"I am happy, that is all, " said Erica. "You would be happy if the yearof freedom were just dawning for you. Three months more and I shall behome. "

She was like a child in her exultant happiness, far more child-like, indeed, than the grave little Ninette whom she was nursing. 

"Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher, " said the fraulein, laughingly. 

"She is no teacher, " cried the girls. "It is holiday time and she neednot talk that frightful English. "

Erica made a laughing defense of her native tongue, and such a babelensued that the fraulein had to interfere again. 

"Liebe Erica! Thou art beside thyself! What has come to thee?"

"Only joy, dear Thekla, at the thought of the beautiful new year whichis coming, " cried Erica. "Father would say I was 'fey, ' and should payfor all this fun with a bad headache or some misfortune. Come, give methe French 'David Copperfield, ' and let me read you how 'Barkis VeutBien, ' and 'Mrs. Gummidge a Pense de l'Ancien. '"

The reading was more exquisitely ludicrous to Erica herself than to herhearers. Still the wit of Charles Dickens, even when translated, called forth peals of laughter from the French girls, too. It was thebrightest, happiest little group imaginable; perhaps it was scarcelywonderful that old Mme. Lemercier, when she came to break it up, shouldfind her eyes dim with tears. 

"My dear Erica--" she said, and broke off abruptly. 

Erica looked up with laughing eyes. 

"Don't scold, dear madame, " she said, coaxingly. "We have been verynoisy; but it is New year's eve, and we are so happy. "

"Dear child, it is not that, " said madame. "I want to speak to you for aminute; come with me, cherie. "

Still Erica noticed nothing; did not detect the tone of pity, did notwonder at the terms of endearment which were generally reserved for moreprivate use. She followed madame into the hall, still chattering gayly. 

"The 'David Copperfield' is for monsieur's present tomorrow, " she said, laughingly. "I knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so I got hima translation. "

"My dear, " said madame, taking her hand, "try to be quiet a moment. I--Ihave something to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your father isarrived--"

"Father! Father here!" exclaimed Erica, in a transport of delight. "Where is he, where? Oh, madame, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Mme. Lemercier tried in vain to detain her, as with cheeks all glowingwith happiness and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the salon. 

"Father!" she cried, throwing open the door and running to meet him. Then suddenly she stood quite still as if petrified. 

Beside the crackling wood fire, his arms on the chimney piece, his facehidden, stood a gray-haired man. He raised himself as she spoke. Hisnews was in his face; it was written all too plainly there. 

"Father!" gasped Erica in a voice which seemed altogether different fromthe first exclamation, almost as if it belonged to a different person. 

Raeburn took her in his arms. 

"My child--my poor little Eric!" he said. 

She did not speak a word, but clung to him as though to keep herselffrom falling. In one instant it seemed as though her whole world hadbeen wrecked, her life shattered. She could not even realize thather father was still left to her, except in so far as the mere bodilysupport was concerned. He was strong; she clung to him as in a hurricaneshe would have clung to a rock. 

"Say it, " she gasped, after a timeless silence, perhaps of minutes, perhaps of hours, it might have been centuries for aught she knew. "Sayit in words. "

She wanted to know everything, wanted to reduce this huge, overwhelmingsorrow to something intelligible. Surely in words it would not be soawful--so limitless. 

And he said it, speaking in a low, repressed voice, yet very tenderly, as if she had been a little child. She made a great effort to listen, but the sentences only came to her disjointedly and as if from a greatdistance. It had been very sudden--a two hours' illness, no very greatsuffering. He had been lecturing at Birmingham--had been telegraphedfor--had been too late. 

Erica made a desperate effort to realize it all; at last she broughtdown the measureless agony to actual words, repeating them over and overto herself--"Mother is dead. "

At length she had grasped the idea. Her heart seemed to die within her, a strange blue shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened. Shefelt her father carry her to the window, was perfectly conscious ofeverything, watched as in a dream, while he wrenched open the clumsyfastening of the casement, heard the voices in the street below, heard, too, in the distance the sound of church bells, was vaguely conscious ofrelief as the cold air blew upon her. 

She was lying on a couch, and, if left to herself, might have lain therefor hours in that strange state of absolute prostration. But she was notalone, and gradually she realized it. Very slowly the re-beginning oflife set in; the consciousness of her father's presence awakened her, as it were, from her dream of unmitigated pain. She sat up, put her armsround his neck, and kissed him, then for a minute let her aching headrest on his shoulder. Presently, in a low but steady voice, she said:"What would you like me to do, father?"

"To come home with me now, if you are able, " he said; "tomorrow morning, though, if you would rather wait, dear. "

But the idea of waiting seemed intolerable to her. The very sound of theword was hateful. Had she not waited two weary years, and this was theend of it all? Any action, any present doing, however painful, but nomore waiting. No terrible pause in which more thoughts and, therefore, more pain might grow. Outside in the passage they met Mme. Lemercier, and presently Erica found herself surrounded by kind helpers, wonderingto find them all so tearful when her own eyes felt so hot and dry. Theywere very good to her, but, separated from her father, her sorrowagain completely overwhelmed her; she could not then feel the slightestgratitude to them or the slightest comfort from their sympathy. She laymotionless on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the woodencross on the opposite wall, or from time to time glancing at FrauleinSonnenthal, who, with little Ninette to help, was busily packing hertrunk. And all the while she said again and again the words which summedup her sorrow: "Mother is dead! Mother is dead!"

After a time her eyes fell on her elaborately drawn paper of days. Every evening since her first arrival she had gone through the almostreligious ceremony of marking off the day; it had often been a greatconsolation to her. The paper was much worn; the weeks and days yet tobe marked were few in number. She looked at it now, and if there can bea "more" to absolute grief, an additional pang to unmitigated sorrow, itcame to her at the sight of that visible record of her long exile. Shesnatched down the paper and tore it to pieces; then sunk back again, pale and breathless. Fraulein Sonnenthal saw and understood. She came toher, and kissed her. 

"Herzbluttchen, " she said, almost in a whisper, and, after a moment'spause: "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott. "

Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned away her head. 

"Why does she choose this time of all others to tell me so, " she thoughtto herself. "Now, when I can't argue or even think! A sure tower! Coulda delusion make one feel that anything is sure but death at such a timeas this! Everything is gone--or going. Mother is dead!--mother is dead!Yet she meant to be kind, poor Thekla, she didn't know it would hurt. "

Mme. Lemercier came into the room with a cup of coffee and a brioche. 

"You have a long journey before you, my little one, " she said; "you musttake this before you start. "

Yes, there was the journey; that was a comfort. There was somethingto be done, something hard and tiring--surely it would blunt herperceptions. She started up with a strange sort of energy, put on herhat and cloak, swallowed the food with an effort, helped to lock hertrunk, moved rapidly about the room, looking for any chance possessionwhich might have been left out. There was such terrible anguish in hertearless eyes that little Ninette shrunk away from her in alarm. Mme. Lemercier, who in the time of the siege had seen great suffering, hadnever seen anything like this; even Thekla Sonnenthal realized that forthe time she was beyond the reach of human comfort. 

Before long the farewells were over. Erica was once more alone with herfather, her cheeks wet with the tears of others, her own eyes still hotand dry. They were to catch the four o'clock train; the afternoon wasdark, and already the streets and shops were lighted; Paris, ever brightand gay, seemed tonight brighter and gayer than ever. She watched theplacid-looking passengers, the idle loungers at the cafes; did they knowwhat pain was? Did they know that death was sure? Presently she foundherself in a second-class carriage, wedged in between her father and aheavy-featured priest; who diligently read a little dogs-eared breviary. Opposite was a meek, weasel-faced bourgeois, with a managing wife, whoordered him about; then came a bushy-whiskered Englishman and a newlymarried couple, while in the further corner, nearly hidden from viewby the burly priest, lurked a gentle-looking Sister of Mercy, and amischievous and fidgety school boy. She watched them all as in a dreamof pain. Presently the priest left off muttering and began to snore, and sleep fell, too, upon the occupants of the opposite seat. The littleweasel-faced man looked most uncomfortable, for the Englishman used himas a prop on one side and the managing wife nearly overwhelmed himon the other; he slept fitfully, and always with the air of a martyr, waking up every few minutes and vainly trying to shake off his burdens, who invariably made stifled exclamations and sunk back again. 

"That would have been funny once, " thought Erica to herself. "How Ishould have laughed. Shall I always be like this all the rest of mylife, seeing what is ludicrous, yet with all the fun taken out of it?"

But her brain reeled at the thought of the "rest of life. " The blank ofbereavement, terrible to all, was absolute and eternal to her, andthis was her first great sorrow. She had known pain, and privation, andtrouble and anxiety, but actual anguish never. Now it had come to hersuddenly, irrevocably, never to be either more or less; perhaps to befitted on as a garment as time wore on, and to become a natural part ofher life; but always to be the same, a blank often felt, always present, till at length her end came and she too passed away into the greatSilence. 

Despair--the deprivation of all hope--is sometimes wild, but oftenercalm with a deathly calmness. Erica was absolutely still--she scarcelymoved or spoke during the long weary journey to Calais. Twice onlydid she feel the slightest desire for any outward vent. At the Amiensstation the school boy in the corner, who had been growing more restlessand excited every hour, sprung from the carriage to greet a small crowdof relations who were waiting to welcome him. She saw him rush tohis mother, heard a confused affectionate babel of inquiries, congratulations, laughter. Oh! To think of that happy light-heartednessand the contrast between it and her grief. The laughter seemedpositively to cut her; she could have screamed from sheer pain. And, asif cruel contrasts were fated to confront her, no sooner had her fatherestablished her in the cabin on board the steamer, than two brightlooking English girls settled themselves close by, and began chattingmerrily about the new year, and the novel beginning it would be on boarda Channel steamer. Erica tried to stop her ears that she might not hearthe discussion of all the forthcoming gayeties. "Lady Reedham's danceon Thursday, our own, you know, next week, " etc. , etc. But she could notshut out the sound of the merry voices, or that wounding laughter. 

Presently an exclamation made her look and listen. 

"Hark!" said one of her fellow passengers. "We shall start now; Ihear the clock striking twelve. A happy new year to you, Lily, and allpossible good fortune. "

"Happy new year!" echoed from different corners of the cabin; thelittle Sister of Mercy knelt down and told her beads, the rest of thepassengers talked, congratulated, laughed. Erica would have givenworlds to be able to cry, but she could not. The terrible mockery of hersurroundings was too great, however, to be borne; her heart seemed likeice, her head like fire; with a sort of feverish strength she rushed outof the cabin, stumbled up the companion, and ran as if by instinct tothat part of the deck where a tall, solitary figure stood up darkly inthe dim light. 

"It's too cold for you, my child, " said Raeburn, turning round at herapproach. 

"Oh, father, let me stay with you, " sobbed Erica, "I can't bear italone. "

Perhaps he was glad to have her near him for his own sake, perhaps herecognized the truth to which she unconsciously testified that humannature does at times cry out for something other than self, stronger andhigher. 

He raised no more objections, they listened in silence till the soundof the church bells died away in the distance, and then he found a moresheltered seat and wrapped her up closely in his own plaid, and togetherthey began their new year. The first lull in Erica's pain came in thatmidnight crossing; the heaving of the boat, the angry dashing of thewaves, the foam-laden wind, all seemed to relieve her. Above all therewas comfort in the strong protecting arm round her. Yet she was toocrushed and numb to be able to wish for anything but that the end mightcome for her there, that together they might sink down into the painlesssilence of death. 

Raeburn only spoke once throughout the passage; instinctively he knewwhat was passing in Erica's mind. He spoke the only word of comfortwhich he had to speak: a noble one, though just then very insufficient:

"There is work to be done. "

Then came the dreary landing in the middle of the dark winter's night, and presently they were again in a railway carriage, but this timealone. Raeburn made her lie down, and himself fell asleep in theopposite corner; he had been traveling uninterruptedly for twenty hours, had received a shock which had tried him very greatly, now from sheerexhaustion he slept. But Erica, to whom the grief was more new, couldnot sleep. Every minute the pain of realization grew keener. Here shewas in England once more, this was the journey she had so often thoughtof and planned. This was going home. Oh, the dreariness of the realitywhen compared with those bright expectations. And yet it was neitherthis thought nor the actual fact of her mother's death which firstbrought the tears to her burning eyes. 

Wearily shifting her position, she looked across to the other side ofthe carriage, and saw, as if in a picture, her father. Raeburn was acomparatively young man, very little over forty; but his anxieties andthe almost incredible amount of hard work of the past two years had toldupon him, and had turned his hair gray. There was something in hisstern set face, in the strong man's reserved grief, in the pose of hisgrand-looking head, dignified, even in exhaustion, that was strangelypathetic. Erica scarcely seemed to realize that he was her father. It was more as if she were gazing at some scene on the stage, or on awonderfully graphic and heart-stirring picture. The pathos and sadnessof it took hold of her; she burst into a passion of tears, turned herface from the light, and cried as if no power on earth could ever stopher, her long-drawn sobs allowed to go unchecked since the noise of thetrain made them inaudible. She was so little given to tears, as a rule, that now they positively frightened her, nor could she understand how, with a real and terrible grief for which she could not weep, the merepathetic sight should have brought down her tears like rain. But theoutburst brought relief with it, for it left her so exhausted that fora brief half hour she slept, and awoke just before they reached London, with such a frightful headache that the physical pain numbed the mental. 

"How soon shall we be--" home she would have said, but the word chokedher. "How soon shall we get there?" she asked faintly. She was soill, so weary, that the mere thought of being still again--even in thedeath-visited home--was a relief, and she was really too much worn outto feel very acutely while they drove through the familiar streets. 

At last, early in the cold, new year's morning, they were set down inGuilford Square, at the grim entrance to Persecution Alley. She lookedround at the gray old houses with a shudder, then her father drew herarm within his, and led her down the dreary little cul-de-sac. Therewas the house, looking the same as ever, and there was Aunt Jean comingforward to meet them, with a strange new tenderness in her voice andlook, and there was Tom in the background, seeming half shy and afraidto meet her in her grief, and there, above all, was the one greateternal void. 

To watch beside the dying must be anguish, and yet surely not such keenanguish as to have missed the last moments, the last farewells, the lastchance of serving. For those who have to come back to the empty house, the home which never can be home again, may God comfort them--no oneelse can. 

Stillness, and food, and brief snatches of sleep somewhat restoredErica. Late in the afternoon she was strong enough to go into hermother's room, for that last look so inexpressibly painful to all, soentirely void of hope or comfort to those who believe in no hereafter. Not even the peacefulness of death was there to give even a slight, amomentary relief to her pain; she scarcely even recognized her mother. Was that, indeed, all that was left? That pale, rigid, utterly changedface and form? Was that her mother? Could that once have been hermother? Very often had she heard this great change wrought by deathreferred to in discussions; she knew well the arguments which werebrought forward by the believers in immortality, the counter argumentswith which her father invariably met them, and which had always seemedto her conclusive. But somehow that which seemed satisfactory in thelecture hall did not answer in the room of death. Her whole being seemedto flow out into one longing question: Might there not be a Beyond--anUnseen? Was this world indeed only

 "A place to stand and love in for an hour, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it?"

She had slept in the afternoon, but at night, when all was still, shecould not sleep. The question still lurked in her mind; her sorrow andloneliness grew almost unbearable. She thought if she could only makeherself cry again perhaps she might sleep, and she took down a bookabout Giordano Bruno, and read the account of his martyrdom, an accountwhich always moved her very much. But tonight not even the descriptionof the valiant unshrinking martyr of Free-thought ascending the scaffoldto meet his doom could in the slightest degree affect her. She triedanother book, this time Dickens's "Tale of Two Cities. " She had neverread the last two chapters without feeling a great desire to cry, buttonight she read with perfect unconcern of Sydney Carton's wanderingsthrough Paris on the night before he gave himself up--read the lastmarvelously written scene without the slightest emotion. It wasevidently no use to try anything else; she shut the book, put out hercandle, and once more lay down in the dark. 

Then she began to think of the words which had so persistently hauntedSydney Carton: "I am the Resurrection and the Life. " She, too, seemedto be wandering about the Parisian streets, hearing these words over andover again. She knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth who had said this. What an assertion it was for a man to make! It was not even "I BRINGthe resurrection, " or "I GIVE the resurrection, " but "I AM theResurrection. " And yet, according to her father, his humility had beenexcessive, carried almost to a fault. Was he the most inconsistent manthat ever lived, or what was he? At last she thought she would get upand see whether there was any qualifying context, and when and where hehad uttered this tremendous saying. 

Lighting her candle, she crept, a little shivering, white-robed figure, round the book-lined room, scanning the titles on every shelf, butbibles were too much in use in that house to be relegated to the attics, she found only the least interesting and least serviceable of herfather's books. There was nothing for it but to go down to the study;so wrapping herself up, for it was a freezing winter's night, she wentnoiselessly downstairs, and soon found every possible facility forBiblical research. 

A little baffled and even disappointed to find the words in that whichshe regarded as the least authentic of the gospels, she still resolvedto read the account; she read it, indeed, in two or three translations, and compared each closely with the others, but in all the words stoodout in uncompromising greatness of assertion. This man claimed to BE theresurrection, of as Wyclif had it, "the agen risying and lyf. "

And then poor Erica read on to the end of the story and was quite thrownback upon herself by the account of the miracle which followed. It wasa beautiful story, she said to herself, poetically written, graphicallydescribed, but as to believing it to be true, she could as soon haveaccepted the "Midsummer Night's Dream" as having actually taken place. 

Shivering with cold she put the books back on their shelf, and stoleupstairs once more to bear her comfortless sorrow as best she could. 

CHAPTER VIII. "Why Do You Believe It?"

 Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to meet her, With the life within departed that had given them each a soul; And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to greet her, For grief spread its shadowy pinions like a blight upon the whole. A. A. Proctor

The winter sunshine which glanced in a side-long, half-and-half wayinto Persecution Alley, and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica'slittle attic, streamed unchecked into a far more cheerful room inGuilford Square, and illumined a breakfast table, at which was seatedone occupant only, apparently making a late and rather hasty meal. Hewas a man of about eight-and-twenty, and though he was not absolutelygood-looking, his face was one which people turned to look at again, notso much because it was in any way striking as far as features went, butbecause of an unusual luminousness which pervaded it. The eyes, whichwere dark gray, were peculiarly expressive, and their softness, whichmight to some have seemed a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalancedby the straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as by a thoroughlymanly bearing and a general impression of unfailing energy whichcharacterized the whole man. His hair, short beard, and mustache were ofa deep nut-brown. He was of medium height and very muscular looking. 

On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you would often meet with, andit was not to be wondered at that his old grandmother looked up prettyfrequently from her arm chair by the fire, and watched him with thatbeautiful loving pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated andvery rarely misplaced. 

"You were out very late, were you not, Brian?" she observed, lettingher knitting needles rest for a minute, and scrutinizing the ratherweary-looking man. 

"Till half-past five this morning, " he replied, in a somewhatpreoccupied voice. 

There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which his grandmother partlyunderstood. She knitted another round of her sock and then said:

"Have you seen Tom Craigie yet?"

"Yes, last night I came across him, " replied Brian. "He told me she hadcome home. They traveled by night and got in early yesterday morning. "

"Poor little thing!" sighed old Mrs. Osmond. "What a home-coming it musthave been?"

"Grannie, " said Brian, pushing back his chair and drawing nearer to thefire "I want you to tell me what I ought to do. I have a message to herfrom her mother, there was no one else to take it, you know, except thelandlady, and I suppose she did not like that. I want to know when Imight see her; one has no right to keep it back, and yet how am I toknow whether she is fit to bear it? I can't write it down, it won'tsomehow go on to paper, yet I can hardly ask to see her. "

"We cannot tell that the message might not comfort her, " said Mrs. Osmond. Then, after a few minutes' thought she added: "I think, Brian, if I were you, I would write her a little note, tell her why you want tosee her, and let her fix her own time. You will leave it entirely in herown hands in that way. "

He mused for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, andmoving across to the writing table, began his first letter to his love. Apparently it was hard to write, for he wasted several sheets and muchtime that he could ill afford. When it was at length finished, it ran asfollows:

"Dear Miss Raeburn, --I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear youshould think me intrusive, but a message was entrusted to me on Tuesdaynight which I dare not of myself keep back from you. Will you see me?If you are able to, and will name the time which will suit you best, Ishall be very grateful. Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me, Yours faithfully, Brian Osmond. "

He sent it off a little doubtfully, by no means satisfied that he haddone a wise thing. But when he returned from his rounds later in the daythe reply set his fears at rest. 

It was written lengthways across a sheet of paper; the small delicatewriting was full of character, but betrayed great physical exhaustion. 

"It is good of you to think of us. Please come this afternoon if you areable. Erica. "

That very afternoon! Now that his wish was granted, now that he wasindeed to see her, Brian would have given worlds to have postponed themeeting. He was well accustomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, butfrom meeting such sorrow as that in the Raeburns' house he shrunk backfeeling his insufficiency. Besides, what words were delicate enough toconvey all that had passed in that death scene? How could he dare toattempt in speech all that the dying mother would fain have had conveyedto her child? And then his own love! Would not that be the greatestdifficulty of all? Feeling her grief as he did, could he yet modify hismanner to suit that of a mere outsider--almost a stranger? He was verydiffident; though longing to see Erica, he would yet have given anythingto be able to transfer his work to his father. This, however, was ofcourse impossible. 

Strange though it might seem, he--the most unsuitable of all men in hisown eyes--was the man singled out to bear this message, to go to thedeath-visited household. He went about his afternoon work in a sort ofsteady, mechanical manner, the outward veil of his inward agitation. About four o'clock he was free to go to Guilford Terrace. 

He was shown into the little sitting room; it was the room in whichMrs. Raeburn had died, and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, thewell-worn furniture, the book-lined walls made the whole scene vividlypresent to him. The room was empty, there was a blazing fire but noother light, for the blinds were down, and even the winter twilight shutout. Brian sat down and waited. Presently the door opened, he looked upand saw Erica approaching him. She was taller than she had been when helast saw her, and now grief had given her a peculiar dignity which madeher much more like her father. Every shade of color had left herface, her eyes wee full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightlyreddened, but apparently rather from sleeplessness than from tears, thewhole face was so altered that a mere casual acquaintance would hardlyhave recognized it, except by the unchanged waves of short auburn hairwhich still formed the setting as it were to a picture lovely even now. Only one thing was unchanged, and that was the frank, unconventionalmanner. Even in her grief she could not be quite like other people. 

"It is very good of you to let me see you, " said Brian, "you are sureyou are doing right; it will not be too much for you today. "

"There is no great difference in says, I think, " said Erica, sittingdown on a low chair beside the fire. "I do not very much believe indegrees in this kind of grief. I do not see why it should be ever moreor ever less. Perhaps I am wrong, it is all new to me. "

She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice. There was an absolutehopelessness about her whole aspect which was terrible to see. Amoment's pause followed, then, looking up at Brian, she fancied that sheread in his face, something of hesitation, of a consciousness that hecould ill express what he wished to say, and her innate courtesy madeher even now hasten to relieve him. 

"Don't be afraid of speaking, " she said, a softer light coming into hereyes. "I don't know why people shrink from meeting trouble. Even Tomis half afraid of me. I am not changed, I am still Erica; can't youunderstand how much I want every one now?

"People differ so much, " said Brian, a little huskily, "and then whenone feels strongly words do not come easily. "

"Do you think I would not rather have your sympathy than an orationfrom any one else! You who were here to the end! You who did everythingfor--for her. My father has told me very little, he was not able to, buthe told me of you, how helpful you were, how good, not like an outsiderat all!"

Evidently she clung to the comforting recollection that at least onetrustable, sympathetic person had been with her mother at the last. Brian could only say how little he had done, how much more he would fainhave done had it been possible. 

"I think you do comfort me by talking, " said Erica. "And now I want you, if you don't mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't torturemy father by asking him, and I couldn't hear it from the landlady. Butyou were here, you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting me; can'tyou understand, if the past were the only thing left to you, you wouldwant to know every tiniest detail!"

He looked searchingly into her eyes, he thought she was right. Therewere no degrees to pain like hers! Besides, it was quite possible thatthe lesser details of her mother's death might bring tears which wouldrelieve her. Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all that hadpassed--she already knew that her mother had died from aneurism of theheart--he told her how in the evening he had been summoned to her, andfrom the first had known that it was hopeless, had been obliged totell her that the time for speech even was but short. He had ordered atelegram to be sent to her father at Birmingham, but Mrs. Craigie andTom were out for the evening, and no one knew where they were to befound. He and the landlady had been alone. 

"She spoke constantly of you, " he continued. "The very last words shesaid were these, 'Tell Erica that only love can keep from bitterness, that love is stronger than the world's unkindness. ' Then, after aminute's pause, she added, 'Be good to my little girl, promise to begood to her. ' After that, speech became impossible, but I do not thinkshe suffered. Once she motioned to me to give her the frame off themantlepiece with your photograph; she looked at it and kept it nearher--she died with it in her hand. "

Erica hid her face; that one trifling little incident was too much forher, the tears rained down between her fingers. That it should have cometo that! No one whom she loved there at the last--but she had lookedat the photograph, had held it to the very end, the voiceless, uselesspicture had been there, the real Erica had been laughing and talkingat Paris! Brian talked on slowly, soothingly. Presently he paused; thenErica suddenly looked up, and dashing away her tears, said, in a voicewhich was terrible in its mingled pain and indignation. 

"I might have been here! I might have been with her! It is the fault ofthat wretched man who went bankrupt; the fault of the bigots who willnot treat us fairly--who ruin us!"

She sobbed with passionate pain, a vivid streak of crimson dyed hercheek, contrasting strangely with the deathly whiteness of her brow. 

"Forgive me if I pain you, " said Brian; "but have you forgotten themessage I gave you? 'It is only love that can keep from bitterness!'"

"Love!" cried Erica; she could have screamed it, if she had not been sophysically exhausted. "Do you mean I am to love our enemies?"

"It is only the love of all humanity that can keep from bitterness, "said Brian. 

Erica began to think over his reply, and in thinking grew calm oncemore. By and by she lifted up her face; it was pale again now, andstill, and perfectly hopeless. 

"I suppose you think that only Christians can love all humanity, " shesaid, a little coldly. 

"I should call all true lovers of humanity Christians, " replied Brian, "whether they are consciously followers of Christ or not. "

She thought a little; then with a curiously hard look in her face, shesuddenly flashed round upon him with a question, much as her fatherwas in the habit of doing when an adversary had made some broad-heartedstatement which had baffled him. 

"Some of you give us a little more charity than others; but what do youmean by Christianity? You ask us to believe what is incredible. WHY doyou believe in the resurrection: What reason have you for thinking ittrue?"

She expected him to go into the evidence question, to quote the numberof Christ's appearances, to speak of the five hundred witnesses of whomshe was weary of hearing. Her mind was proof against all this; whatcould be more probable than that a number of devoted followers should bethe victims of some optical delusion, especially when their minds weredisturbed by grief. Here was a miracle supported on one side by thetestimony of five hundred and odd spectators all longing to see theirlate Master, and contradicted on the other side by common sense and theexperience of the remainder of the human race during thousands of years!She looked full at Brian, a hard yet almost exultant expression in hereyes, which spoke more plainly than words her perfect conviction:

"You can't set your evidences against my counter-evidences! You can'tlogically maintain that a few uneducated men are to have more weightthan all the united experience of mankind. "

Never would she so gladly have believed in the doctrine of immortalityas now, yet with characteristic honesty and resoluteness she set herselfinto an attitude of rigid defense, lest through strong desire or merebodily weariness she should drift into the acceptance of what might be, what indeed she considered to be error. But to her surprise, half to herdisappointment, Brian did not even mention the evidences. She had bracedherself up to withstand arguments drawn from the five hundred brothers, but the preparation was useless. 

"I believe in the resurrection, " said Brian, "because I cannot doubtJesus Christ. He is the most perfectly lovable and trustable beingI know, or can conceive of knowing. He said He should rise again, Ibelieve that He did rise. He was perfectly truthful, therefore He couldnot mislead; He KNEW, therefore He could not be misled. "

"We do not consider Him to be all that you assert, " said Erica. "Nor doHis followers make one inclined to think that either He or His teachingwere so perfect as you try to make out. You are not so hard-hearted assome of them--"

She broke off, seeing a look of pain on her companion's face. "Oh, whatam I saying!" she cried in a very different tone, "you who have done somuch--you who were always good to us--I did not indeed mean to hurt you, it is your creed that I can't help hating, not you. You are our friend, you said so long ago. "

"Always, " said Brian; "never doubt that. "

"Then you must forgive me for having wounded you, " said Erica, her wholeface softening. "You must remember how hard it all is, and that I am sovery, very miserable. "

He would have given his life to bring her comfort, but he was not a verygreat believer in words, and besides, he thought she had talked quite aslong as she ought. 

"I think, " he said, "that, honestly acted out, the message intrusted tome ought to comfort your misery. "

"I can't act it out, " she said. 

"You will begin to try, " was Brian's answer; and then, with a very fullheart, he said goodbye and left his Undine sitting by the fire, with herhead resting on her hands, and the words of her mother's message echoingin her ears. "It is only love that can keep from bitterness; love isstronger than the world's unkindness. "

Presently, not daring to dwell too much on that last scene which Brianhad described, she turned to his strange, unexpected reason for hisbelief in the resurrection, and mused over the characteristics of hisideal. Then she thought she would like to see again what her ideal manhad to say about his, and she got up and searched for a small book ina limp red cover, labeled "Life of Jesus of Nazareth--Luke Raeburn. " Itwas more than two years since she had seen it; she read it through oncemore. The style was vigorous, the veiled sarcasms were not unpleasantto her, she detected no unfairness in the mode of treatment, the booksatisfied her, the conclusion arrived at seemed to her inevitable--BrianOsmond's ideal was not perfect. 

With a sigh of utter weariness she shut the book and leaned back in herchair with a still, white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina sprung upon her knee with a little sympathetic mew; she had been too miserableas yet to notice even her favorite cat very much, now a scarcelyperceptible shade of relief came to her sadness, she stroked the softgray head. But scarcely had she spoken to her favorite, when the catsuddenly turned away, sprung from her knee and trotted out of the room. It seemed like actual desertion, and Erica could ill bear it just then. 

"What, you too, Friskie, " she said to herself, "are even you glad tokeep away from me?"

She hid her face in her hands; desolate and miserable as she had beenbefore, she now felt more completely alone. 

In a few minutes something warm touching her feet made her look up, andwith one bound Friskarina sprung into her lap, carrying in her moutha young kitten. She purred contentedly, looking first at her child andthen at her mistress, saying as plainly as if she had spoken:

"Will this comfort you?"

Erica stroked and kissed both cat and kitten, and for the first timesince her trouble a feeling of warmth came to her frozen heart. 

CHAPTER IX. Rose

 A life of unalloyed content, A life like that of land-locked seas. J. R. Lowell

"Elspeth, you really must tell me, I'm dying of curiosity, and I can seeby your face you know all about it! How is it that grandpapa's name isin the papers when he has been dead all these years? I tell you I sawit, a little paragraph in today's paper, headed, 'Mr. Luke Raeburn. ' Isthis another namesake who has something to do with him?"

The speaker was a tall, bright-looking girl of eighteen, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blond, with a saucy little mouth, about which there nowlurked an expression of undisguised curiosity. Rose, for that was hername, was something of a coax, and all her life long she had managedto get her own way; she was an only child, and had been not a littlespoiled; but in spite of many faults she was lovable, and beneath herouter shell of vanity and self-satisfaction there lay a sterling littleheart. 

Her companion, Elspeth, was a wrinkled old woman, whose smooth grayhair was almost hidden by a huge mob-cap, which, in defiance of moderncustom, she wore tied under her chin. She had nursed Rose and her motherbefore her and had now become more like a family friend than a servant. 

"Miss Rose, " she replied, looking up from her work, "if you go onchatter-magging away like this, there'll be no frock ready for youtonight, " and with a most uncommunicative air, the old woman turnedaway, and gave a little impressive shake to the billowy mass of whitetarletan to which she was putting the finishing touches. 

"The white lilies just at the side, " said Rose, her attention divertedfor a moment. "Won't it be lovely! The prettiest dress in the room, I'msure. " Then, her curiosity returning, "But, Elspeth, I sha'nt enjoy thedance a bit unless you tell me what Mr. Luke Raeburn has to do with us?Listen, and I'll tell you how I found out. Papa brought the paper upto Mamma, and said, 'Did you see this?' And then mamma read it, and thecolor came all over her face, and she did not say a word, but went outof the room pretty soon. And then I took up the paper, and looked at thepage she had been reading, and saw grandpapa's name. "

"What was it about?" asked old Elspeth. 

"That's just what I couldn't understand; it was all about secularists. What are secularists? But it seems that this Luke Raeburn, whoever heis, has lost his wife. While he was lecturing at Birmingham on the soul, it is said, his wife died, and this paragraph said it seemed like ajudgment, which was rather cool, I think. "

"Poor laddie!" signed old Elspeth. 

"Elspeth, " cried Rose, "do you know who the man is?"

"Miss Rose, " said the old woman severely, "in my young days there was asaying that you'd do well to lay to heart, 'Ask no questions, and you'llbe told no stories. '"

"It isn't your young days now, it's your old days, Elsie, " said theimperturbable Rose. "I will ask you questions as much as I please, andyou'll tell me what this mystery means, there's a dear old nurse! Have Inot a right to know about my own relations?"

"Oh, bairn, bairn! If it were anything you'd like to hear, but whyshould you know what is all sad and gloomful? No, no, go to your balls, and think of your fine dresses and gran' partners, though, for thematter of that, it is but vanity of vanities--"

"Oh, if you're going to quote Ecclesiastes, I shall go!" said Rose, pouting. "I wish that book wasn't in the Bible! I'm sure such an oldgrumbler ought to have been in the Apocrypha. "

Elspeth shook her head, and muttered something about judgment andtrouble. Rose began to be doubly curious. 

"Trouble, sadness, a mystery--perhaps a tragedy! Rose had read of suchthings in books; were there such things actually in the family, andshe had never known of them? A few hours ago and she had been unable tothink of anything but her first ball, her new dress, her flowers; butshe was seized now with the most intense desire to fathom this mystery. That it bid fair to be a sad mystery only made her more eager andcurious. She was so young, so ignorant, there was still a halo ofromance about those unknown things, trouble and sadness. 

"Elspeth, you treat me like a child!" she exclaimed; "it's really toobad of you. "

"Maybe you're right, bairn, " said the old nurse; "but it's no doing ofmine. But look here, Miss Rose, you be persuaded by me, go straightto your mamma and ask her yourself. Maybe there is a doubt whether yououghtn't to know, but there is no doubt that I mustn't tell you. "

Rose hesitated, but presently her curiosity overpowered her reluctance. 

Mrs. Fane-Smith, or, as she had been called in her maiden days, IsabelRaeburn, was remarkably like her daughter in so far as featuresand coloring were concerned, but she was exceedingly unlike her incharacter, for whereas Rose was vain and self-confident, and had adecided will of her own, her mother was diffident and exaggeratedlyhumble. She was a kind-hearted and a good woman, but she was in dangerof harassing herself with the question, "What will people say?"

She looked up apprehensively as her daughter came into the room. Rose felt sure she had been crying, her curiosity was still furtherstimulated, and with all the persuasiveness at her command, she urgedher mother to tell her the meaning of the mysterious paragraph. 

"I am sorry you have asked me, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith, "but, perhaps, since you are no longer a child, you had better know. It is a sad story, however, Rose, and I should not have chosen to tell it to you today ofall days. "

"But I want to hear, mamma, " said Rose, decidedly. "Please begin. Who isthis Mr. Raeburn?"

"He is my brother, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith, with a little quiver in hervoice. 

"Your brother! My uncle!" cried Rose, in amazement. 

"Luke was the oldest of us, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith, "then came Jean, andI was the youngest of all, at least of those who lived. "

"Then I have an aunt, too, an Aunt Jean?" exclaimed Rose. 

"You shall hear the whole story, " replied her mother. She thought for aminute, then in rather a low voice she began: "Luke and Jean were alwaysthe clever ones, Luke especially; your grandfather had set his heart onhis being a clergyman, and you can fancy the grief it was to us when hethrew up the whole idea, and declared that he could never take Orders. He was only nineteen when he renounced religion altogether; he and myfather had a great dispute, and the end of it was that Luke was sentaway from home, and I never have seen him since. He has become a verynotorious infidel lecturer. Jean was very much unsettled by his changeof views, and I believe her real reason for marrying old Mr. Craigiewas that she had made him promise to let her see Luke again. She marriedyoung and settled down in London, and when, in a few years, her husbanddied, she too, renounced Christianity. "

To tell the truth, Rose was not deeply interested in the story, it fella little flat after her expectations of a tragedy. It had, moreover, asort of missionary flavor, and she had till the last few months lived inIndia, and had grown heartily tired of the details of mission work, in which both her father and mother had been interested. Conversions, relapses, heathenism, belief and unbelief were words which had soundedso often in her ears that now they bored her; as they were the merestwords to her it could hardly be otherwise. But Rose's best point was herloyalty to her own family, she had the "clan" feeling very strongly, and she could not understand how her mother could have allowed such acomplete estrangement to grow up between her and her nearest relations. 

"Mamma, " she said, quickly, "I should have gone to see Uncle Luke if Ihad been you. "

"It is impossible, dear, " replied Mrs. Fane-Smith. "Your father wouldnot allow it for one thing, and then only think what people would say!This is partly my reason for telling you, Rose; I want to put you uponyour guard. We heard little or nothing of your uncle when we were inIndia, but you will find it very different here. He is one of the mostnotorious men in England; you must never mention his name, never alludeto him, do you understand me?"

"Is he then so wicked?"

"My dear, consider what his teaching is, that is sufficient; I wouldnot for the whole world allow our Greyshot friends to guess that weare connected with him in any way. It might ruin all your prospects inlife. "

"Mamma, " said Rose, "I don't think Mr. Raeburn will injure myprospects--of course you mean prospects of marrying. If a man didn'tcare enough for me to take me whether I am the niece of the worst man inEngland or not, do you think I would accept him?"

There was an angry ring in her voice as she spoke, her little saucymouth looked almost grand. After a moment's pause, she added, morequietly, but with all the force of the true woman's heart which layhidden beneath her silliness and frivolity, "Besides, mamma, is it quitehonest?"

"We are not bound to publish our family history to the world, Rose. Ifany one asked me, of course I should tell the truth; if there was anyway of helping my brother or his child I would gladly serve them, eventhough the world would look coldly on me for doing so; but while theyremain atheists how is it possible?"

"Then he has a child?"

"One only, I believe, a girl of about your own age. "

"Oh, mamma, how I should like to know her!"

"My dear Rose, how can you speak of such a thing? You don't realize thatshe is an atheist, has not even been baptized, poor little thing!"

"But she is my cousin, and she is a girl just like me, " said Rose. "Ishould like to know her very much. I wonder whether she has come outyet. I wonder how she enjoyed her first ball. "

"My dear! They are not in society. "

"How dull! What does she do all day, I wonder?"

"I cannot tell, I wish you would not talk about her, Rose; I should notwish you even to think about her, except, indeed, to mention her in yourprayers. "

"Oh, I'd much rather have her here to stay, " said Rose, with a littlemischievous gleam in her eyes. 

"Rose!"

"Why mamma, if she were a black unbeliever you would be delighted tohave her; it is only because she is white that you won't have anythingto do with her. You would have been as pleased as possible if I had madefriends with any of the ladies in the Zenanas. "

Mrs. Fane-Smith looked uncomfortable, and murmured that that was a verydifferent question. Rose, seeing her advantage, made haste to follow itup. 

"At any rate, mamma, you will write to Uncle Luke now that he is introuble, and you'll let me send a note to his daughter? Only think, mamma, she has lost her mother so suddenly! Just think how wretched shemust be! Oh, mamma, dear, I can't think how she can bear it!" and Rosethrew her arms round her mother's neck. "I should die too if you were todie! I'm sure I should. "

Rose was very persuasive, Mrs. Fane-Smith's motherly heart was touched;she sat down there and then, and for the first time since the summer daywhen Luke Raeburn had been turned out of his father's house, she wroteto her brother. Rose in the meantime had taken a piece of paper from hermother's writing desk, and with a fat volume of sermons by way of a deskwas scribbling away as fast as she could. This was her letter:

"My dear cousin, --I don't know your name, and have only just heardanything about you, and the first thing I heard was that you were indreadful trouble. I only write to send you my love, and to say how verysorry I am for you. We only came to England in the autumn. I like itvery much. I am going to my first ball tonight, and expect to enjoy itimmensely. My dress is to be white tarle--Oh, dear! How horrid of me tobe writing like this to you. Please forgive me. I don't like to be sohappy when you are unhappy; but, you see, I have only just heard ofyou, so it is a little difficult. With love, I remain, your affectionatecousin, Rose Fane-Smith. "

That evening, while Erica, with eyes dim with grief and weariness, wasporing over the books in her father's study, Rose was being initiatedinto all the delights of the ballroom. She was in her glory. Everythingwas new to her; she enjoyed dancing, she knew that she looked pretty, knew that her dress was charming, knew that she was much admired, andof course she liked it all. But the chaperons shook their heads; it waswhispered that Miss Fane-Smith was a terrible flirt, she had danced noless than seven dances with Captain Golightly. If her mother erred bythinking too much of what people said, perhaps Rose erred in exactly theopposite way; at any rate, she managed to call down upon her silly butinnocent little head an immense amount of blame from the mothers andelderly ladies. 

"A glorious moonlight night, " said Captain Golightly. "What do you say, Miss Fane-Smith? Shall we take a turn in the garden? Or are you afraidof the cold?"

"Afraid! Oh, dear no, " said Rose; "it's the very thing I should enjoy. Isuppose I must get my shawl, though; it is upstairs. "

They were in the vestibule. 

"Have my ulster, " said Captain Golightly. "Here it is, just handy, andit will keep you much warmer. "

Rose laughed and blushed, and allowed herself to be put into herpartner's coat, rather to the detriment of her billowy tarletan. Aftera while they came back again from the dim garden to the brightly lightedvestibule, and as ill luck would have it, chanced to encounter a streamof people going into the supper room. Every one stared at the apparitionof Miss Fane-Smith in Captain Golightly's coat. With some difficultyshe struggled out of it, and with very hot cheeks sought shelter in theballroom. 

"How dreadfully they looked! Do you think it was wrong of me?" she halfwhispered to her partner. 

"Oh, dear, no! Sensible and plucky, and everything delightful! You aremuch too charming to be bound down to silly conventionalities. Come, letus have this dance. I'm sure you are engaged to some one in the supperroom who can't deserve such a delightful partner. Let us have this TROISTEMPS, and hurl defiance at the Greyshot chaperons. "

Rose laughed, and allowed herself to be borne off. She had been excitedbefore, now she was doubly excited, and Captain Golightly had the mostdelicious step imaginable. 

CHAPTER X. Hard at Work

 Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living; But, would we learn that heart's full scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope And realize our longing. J. R. Lowell

Perhaps it was only natural that there should be that winter a good dealof communication between the secularist's house in Guilford Terrace andthe clergyman's house in Guilford Square. 

From the first Raeburn had taken a great fancy to Charles Osmond, andnow that Brian had become so closely connected with the memory of theirsudden bereavement, and had made himself almost one of them by hissilent, unobtrusive sympathy, and by his numberless acts of delicateconsiderateness, a tie was necessarily formed which promised to deepeninto one of those close friendships that sometimes exist between twoentire families. 

It was a bleak, chilly afternoon in March, when Charles Osmond, returning from a long round of parish work, thought he would look in fora few minutes at the Raeburns'; he had a proposal to make to Erica, somefresh work which he thought might interest her. He rang the bell at thenow familiar door and was admitted; it carried him back to the day whenhe had first called there and had been shown into the fire-lit room, with the book-lined walls, and the pretty little girl curled up on therug, with her cat and her toasting fork. Time had brought many changessince then. This evening he was again shown into the study, but thistime the gas was lighted, and there was no little girl upon the hearthrug. Erica was sitting at her desk hard at work. Her face lighted up atthe sight of her visitor. 

"Every one is out except me, " she said, more brightly than he had heardher speak since her return. "Did you really come to see me. How good ofyou. "

"But you are busy?" said Charles Osmond, glancing at the papers on thedesk. "Press work?"

"Yes, my first article, " said Erica, "it is just finished; but if you'llexcuse me for one minute, I ought to correct it; the office boy willcall for it directly. "

"Don't hurry; I will wait and get warm in the meantime, " said CharlesOsmond, establishing himself by the fire. 

There was a silence broken only by the sound of Erica's pen as shecrossed out a word or a line. Charles Osmond watched her and mused. Thisbeautiful girl, whose development he could trace now for more than twoyears back, what would she grow into? Already she was writing in the"Idol Breaker. " He regretted it. Yet it was obviously the most naturalemployment for her. He looked at her ever-changing face. She wasabsorbed in her work, her expression varying with the sentences sheread; now there was a look of triumphant happiness as she cameto something which made her heart beat quickly; again, a shade ofdissatisfaction at the consciousness of her inability to express whatwas in her mind. He could not help thinking that it was one of thenoblest faces he had ever seen, and now that the eyes were downcast itwas not so terribly sad; there was, moreover, for the first time sinceher mother's death, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. Before fiveminutes could have passed, the bell rang again. 

"That is my boy, " she exclaimed, and hastily blotting her sheets, sherolled them up, gave them to the servant, closed her desk, and crossingthe room, knelt down in front of the fire to warm her hands, which werestiff and chilly. 

"How rude I have been to you, " she said, smiling a little; "I alwayshave been rude to you since the very first time we met. "

"We were always frank with each other, " said Charles Osmond; "I rememberyou gave me your opinion as to bigots and Christians in the mostdelightfully open way. So you have been writing your first article?"

"Yes, " and she stretched herself as though she were rather tired andcramped. "I have had a delicious afternoon. Yesterday I was in despairabout it, but today it just came--I wrote it straight off. "

"And you are satisfied with it?"

"Satisfied? Oh, no! Is anybody ever satisfied? By the time it is inprint I shall want to alter every sixth line. Still, I dare say it willsay a little of what I want said?"

"Oh, you do want something said?"

"Of course!" she replied, a little indignantly. "If not, how could Iwrite. "

"I quite agree with you, " said Charles Osmond, "and you mean to takethis up as your vocation?"

"If I am thought worthy, " said Erica, coloring a little. 

"I see you have high ideas of the art, " said Charles Osmond; "and whatis your reason for taking it up?"

"First of all, though it sounds rather illogical, " said Erica, "I writebecause I MUST; there is something in me which will have its way. Then, too, it is part of our creed that every one should do all in his powerto help on the cause, and of course, if only for my father's sake, itwould be my greatest pleasure. Then, last of all, I write because I mustearn my living. "

"Good reasons all, " said Charles Osmond. "But I don't feel sure that youwon't regret having written when you look back several years hence. "

"Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but one mustmake a beginning, " said Erica. 

"And are you sure you have thought out these great questions sothoroughly and fairly that you are capable of teaching others aboutthem?"

"Ah! Now I see what you mean!" exclaimed Erica; "you think I write indefense of atheism, or as an attacker of Christianity. I do nothingof the kind; father would not allow me to, he would not think me oldenough. Oh! No, I am only to write the lighter articles which are neededevery now and then. Today I had a delightful subject--'Heroes--what arethey?'"

"Well, and what is your definition of a hero, I wonder; what are thequalities you think absolutely necessary to make one?"

"I think I have only two absolutely necessary ones, " said Erica; "but myheroes must have these two, they must have brains and goodness. "

"A tolerably sweeping definition, " said Charles Osmond, laughing, "almost equal to a friend of mine who wanted a wife, and said there wereonly two things he would stipulate for--1, 500 a year, and an angel. Butit brings us to another definition, you see. We shall agree as to thebrains, but how about goodness! What is your definition of that verywide, not to say vague, term?"

"I don't think I can define it, " she said; "but one knows it when onesees it. "

"Do you mean by it unselfishness, courage, truthfulness, or any othervirtue?"

"Oh, it isn't any one virtue, or even a parcel of virtues, it will notgo into words. "

"It is then the nearest approach to some perfect ideal which is in yourmind?"

"I suppose it is, " she said, slowly. 

"How did that ideal come into your mind?"

"I don't know; I suppose I got it by inheritance. "

"From the original moneron?"

"You are laughing at me. I don't know how of course, but I have it, which, as far as I can see, is all that matters. "

"I am not sure of that, " said Charles Osmond. "The explanation of thatideal of goodness which more or less clearly exists in all our minds, seems to me to rest only in the conviction that all are children of oneperfect Father. And I can give you our definition of goodness withouthesitation, it is summed up for us in one word--'Christlikeness. '"

"I cannot see it; it seems to me all exaggerated, " said Erica. "I believe it is only because people are educated to believe andpredisposed to think it all good and perfect that there are so manyChristians. You may say it is we who are prejudiced. If we are, I'msure you Christians have done enough to make us so! How could I, forinstance, be anything but an atheist? Shall I tell you the very firstthing I can remember?"

Her eyes were flashing with indignant light. 

"I was a little tiny child--only four years old--but there are somescenes one never forgets. I can see it all as plainly as possible, theroom in a hotel, the very doll I was playing with. There was a greatnoise in the street, trampling, hissing, hooting. I ran to the window, an immense crowd was coming nearer and nearer, the street was black withthe throng, they were all shouting and yelling--'Down with the infidel!''Kill the atheist!' Then I saw my father, he was there strong andfearless, one man against a thousand! I tell you I saw him, I can seehim now, fighting his way on single-handed, not one creature braveenough to stand up for him. I saw him pushed, struck, spit upon, stoned. At last a great brick struck him on the head. I think I must have beentoo sick or too angry to see any more after that. The next thing Iremember is lying on the floor sobbing, and hearing father come into theroom and say: 'Why, little son Eric, did you think they'd killed me?'And he picked me up and let me sit on his knee, but there was blood onhis face, and as he kissed me it dropped upon my forehead. I tell you, you Christians baptized me into atheism in my own father's blood. Theywere Christians who stoned him, champions of religion, and they wereegged on by the clergy. Did I not hear it all then in my babyhood?And it is true; it is all fact; ask anybody you like; I have notexaggerated. "

"My dear child, I know you have not, " said Charles Osmond, putting hisstrong hand upon hers. He could feel that she was all trembling withindignation. Was it to be wondered at? "I remember those riots perfectlywell, " he continued. "I think I felt and feel as indignant about themas yourself. A fearful mistake was made--Mr. Raeburn was shamefullytreated. But, Erica"--it was the first time he had called her by hername--"you who pride yourself upon fairness, you who make justice yourwatchword must be careful not to let the wrong doing of a few Christiansprejudice you against Christianity. You say that we are all predisposedto accept Christ; but candidly you must allow, I think, that you aretrebly prejudiced against the very name of Christian. A Christian almostinevitably means to you only one of your father's mistaken persecutors. "

"Yes, you are so much of an exception that I always forget you areone, " said Erica, smiling a little. "Yet you are not like one ofus--quite--you somehow stand alone, you are unlike any one I evermet; you and Thekla Sonnenthal and your son make to me a sort of newvariety. "

Charles Osmond laughed, and changed the subject. "You are busy with yourexamination work, I suppose?" And the question led to a long talk aboutbooks and lectures. 

In truth, Erica had plunged into work of all kinds, not merely from loveof it, but because she felt the absolute need of fresh interests, thegreat danger of dwelling unduly on her sorrow. Then, too, she had justgrasped a new idea, an idea at once noble and inspiriting. Hitherto shehad thought of a happy future for herself, of a home free from troublesand harassing cares. That was all over now, her golden dream had cometo an end, "Hope dead lives nevermore. " The life she had pictured toherself could never be, but her nature was too strong to be crushed bythe sorrow; physically the shock had weakened her far more than any oneknew, but, mentally, it had been a wonderful stimulant. She rose aboveherself, above her trouble, and life began to mean something broader anddeeper than before. 

Hitherto her great desire had been to be free from care, and to behappy; now the one important thing seemed not so much to be happy, asto know. To learn herself, and to help others to learn, became her chiefobject, and, with all the devotion of an earnest, high-souled nature, she set herself to act out these convictions. She read hard, attendedlectures, and twice a week taught in the night school attached to theInstitute. 

Charles Osmond could not help smiling as she described her days to him. She still retained something of the childishness of an Undine, and asthey talked she had taken up her old position on the hearth rug, andFriskarina had crept on to her knee. Here, undoubtedly, was one whomignorant people would stigmatize as "blue" or as a "femme savante;" theywould of course be quite wrong and inexpressively foolish to use suchterms, and yet there was, perhaps, something a little incongruous inthe two sides, as it were, of Erica's nature, the keen intellect and thechild-like devotion, the great love of learning and the intense loveof fun and humor. Charles Osmond had only once in all his long years ofexperience met with a character which interested him so much. 

"After all, " he said, when they had talked for some time, "I have nevertold you that I came on a begging errand, and I half fear that you willbe too busy to undertake any more work. "

Erica's face brightened at the word; was not work what she lived for?

"Oh! I am not too busy for anything!" she exclaimed. "I shall quoteMarcus Aurelius to you if you say I haven't time! What sort of work?"

"Only, when you can, to come to us in the afternoon and read a little tomy mother. Do you think you could? Her eyes are failing, and Brian and Iare hard at work all day; I am afraid she is very dull. "

"I should like to come very much, " said Erica, really pleased at thesuggestion. "What sort of books would Mrs. Osmond like?"

"Oh, anything! History, travels, science, or even novels, if you are notabove reading them!"

"I? Of course not, " said Erica, laughing. "Don't you think we enjoythem as much as other people? When there is time to read them, at least, which isn't often. "

Charles Osmond laughed. 

"Very well then, you have a wide field. From Carlyle to Miss Bird, and from Ernst Haeckel to Charles Reade. I should make them into a bigsandwich if I were you. "

He said goodbye, and left Erica still on the hearth rug, her facebrighter than it had been for months. 

"I like that man, " she said to herself. "He's honest and thorough, andgood all through. Yet how in the world does he make himself believe inhis creed? Goodness, Christlikeness. He looked so grand, too, as he saidthat. It is wonderful what a personal sort of devotion those three havefor their ideal. "

She wandered away to recollections of Thekla Sonnenthal, and thatcarried her back to the time of their last parting, and the recollectionof her sorrow. All at once the loneliness of the present was borne inupon her overwhelmingly; she looked around the little room, the Ilkleycouch was pushed away into a corner, there was a pile of newspapers uponit. A great sob escaped her. For a minute she pressed her handstightly together over her eyes, then she hurriedly opened a book on"Electricity, " and began to read as if for her life. 

She was roused in about an hour's time by a laughing exclamation. Shestarted, and looking up, saw her cousin Tom. 

"Talk about absorption, and brown studies!" he cried, "why, you eateverything I ever saw. I've been looking at you for at least threeminutes. "

Tom was now about nineteen; he had inherited the auburn coloring of theRaeburns, but otherwise he was said to be much more like the Craigies. He was nice looking, but somewhat freckled, and though he was tall andstrongly built, he somehow betrayed that he had led a sedentary life andlooked, in fact, as if he wanted a training in gymnastics. For therest he was shrewd, business-like, good-natured, and at present veryconceited. He had been Erica's friend and playfellow as long as shecould remember; they were brother and sister in all but the name, forthey had lived within a stone's throw of each other all their lives, andnow shared the same house. 

"I never heard you come in, " she said, smiling a little. "You must havebeen very quiet. "

"I don't believe you'd hear a salute fired in the next room if you werereading, you little book worm! But look here; I've got a parody on thechieftain that'll make you cry with laughing. You remember the smashedwindows at the meeting at Rilchester last week?"

Erica remembered well enough, she had felt sore and angry about it, andthe comments in the newspapers had not been consolatory. She had learnedto dread even the comic papers; but there was nothing spiteful in theone which Tom produced that evening. It was headed:

Scotch song (Tune--"Twas within a mile of Edinboro'town")

 "Twas within a hall of Rilchester town, In the bleak spring-time of the year, Luke Raeburn gave a lecture on the soul of man, And found that it cost him dear. Windows all were smashed that day, They said: 'The atheist can pay. ' But Scottish Raeburn, frowning cried: 'Na, na, it winna do, I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna pay for you. '"

The parody ran on through the three verses of the song, the conclusionwas really witty, and there was no sting in it. Erica laughed over it asshe had not laughed for weeks. Tom, who had been trying unsuccessfullyto cheer her ever since her return, was quite relieved. 

"I believe the sixpence a day style suits you, " he said. "But, I say, isn't anything coming up? I'm as hungry as a hunter. "

Their elders being away for a few days, Tom and Erica were amusingthemselves by trying to live on the rather strange diet of the man whopublished his plan for living at the smallest possible cost. They werealready beginning to be rather weary of porridge, pea soup and lentils. This evening pea soup was in the ascendant, and Erica, tired with a longafternoon's work, felt as if she could almost as soon have eaten Thamesmud. 

"Dear me, " she said, "it never struck me, this is our Lenten penance!Now, wouldn't any one looking in fancy we were poor Romanists without anindulgence?"

"Certainly without any self-indulgence, " said Tom, who never lost anopportunity of making a bad pun. 

"It would be a great indulgence to stop eating, " said Erica, sighingover the soup yet to be swallowed. 

"Do you think it is more inspiriting to fast in order to save one's soulthan it is to pay the chieftain's debts? I wish I could honestly say, like the little French girl in her confession: 'J'ai trop mang. '"

Tom dearly loved that story, he was exceeding fond of getting choicelittle anecdotes from various religious newspapers, especially thosewhich dealt in much abuse of the Church of Rome, and he retailed themCON AMORE. Erica listened to several, and laughed a good deal over them. 

"I wonder, though, they don't see how they play into our hands byputting in these things, " she said after Tom had given her a descriptionof some ludicrous attack made by a ritualist on an evangelical. "Ishould have thought they would have tried to agree whenever they could, instead of which they seem almost as spiteful to each other as they areto us. "

"They'd know better if they'd more than a grain of sense between them, "said Tom, sweepingly, "but they haven't; and as they're always playingbattledoor and shuttlecock with that, it isn't much good to either. Of course they play into our hands. I believe the spiteful ultra-highpaper, and the spiteful ultra-low paper do more to promote atheism thanthe 'Idol-Breaker' itself. "

"How dreadful it must be for men like Mr. Osmond, who see all round, andyet can't stop what they must think the mischief. Mr. Osmond has beenhere this afternoon. "

"Ah, now, he's a stunning fellow, if you like, " said Tom. "He's not oneof the pig-headed narrow-minded set. How he comes to be a parson I can'tmake out. "

"Well, you see, from their point of view it is the best thing to be; Imean he gets plenty of scope for work. I fancy he feels as much obligedto speak and teach as father does. "

"Pity he's not on our side, " said Tom; "they say he's a first-ratespeaker. But I'm afraid he is perfectly crazy on that point; he'llnever come over. "

"I don't think we've a right to put the whole of his religiousness downto a mania, " said Erica. "Besides, he is not the sort of man to be evena little mad, there's nothing the least fanatical about him. "

"Call it delusion if you like it better. What's in a name? The thingremains the same. A man can't believe what is utterly against reasonwithout becoming, as far as that particular belief is concerned, unreasonable, beyond the pale of reason, therefore deluded, thereforemad. "

Erica looked perplexed; she did not think Tom's logic altogether good, but she could not correct it. There was, however, a want of generosityabout the assertion which instantly appealed to her fine sense of honor. 

"I can't argue it out, " she said at last, "but it doesn't seem to mefair to put down what we can't understand in other people to madness; itnever seemed to me quite fair for Festus to accuse Paul of madness whenhe really had made a splendid defense, and it doesn't seem fair that youshould accuse Mr. Osmond of being mad. "

"Only on that one point, " said Tom. "Just a little touched, you know. How else can you account for a man like that believing what he professesto believe?"

"I don't know, " said Erica, relapsing into perplexed silence. 

"Besides, " continued Tom, "you cry out because I say they must be just alittle touched, but they accuse us of something far worse than madness, they accuse us of absolute wickedness. "

"Not all of them, " said Erica. 

"The greater part, " said Tom. "How often do you think the chieftainmeets with really fair treatment from the antagonists?"

Erica had nothing to say to this. The harshness and intolerance whichher father had constantly to encounter was the great grief of her life, the perpetual source of indignation, her strongest argument againstChristianity. 

"Have you much to do tonight?" she asked, not anxious to stir up afreshthe revolt against the world's injustice which the merest touch wouldset working within her. "I was thinking that, if there was time tospare, we might go to see the professor; he has promised to show me someexperiments. "

"Electricity?" Tom pricked up his ears. "Not half a bad idea. If you'llhelp me we can polish off the letters in an hour or so, and be free byeight o'clock. "

They set to work, and between them disposed of the correspondence. 

It was a great relief to Erica after her long day's work to be out inthe cool evening air. The night was fine but very windy, indeed thesudden gusts at the street corners made her glad to take Tom's arm. Once, as they rather slackened their speed, half baffled by the storm, asentence from a passer-by fell on their ears. The speaker looked like acountryman. 

"Give me a good gas-burner with pipes and a meter that a honest man canunderstand! Now this 'ere elective light I say it's not canny; I've nobelief in things o' that kind, it won't never--"

The rest of the speech died away in the distance. Tom and Erica laughed, but the incident set Erica thinking. Here was a man who would notbelieve what he could not understand, who wanted "pipes and a meter, "and for want of comprehensible outward signs pooh-poohed the great newdiscovery. 

"Tom, " she said slowly, and with the manner of one who makes a veryunpleasant suggestion, reluctantly putting forward an unwelcome thought, "suppose if, after all, we are like that man, and reject a granddiscovery because we don't know and are too ignorant to understand! Tom, just suppose if, after all, Christianity should be true and we in thewrong!"

"Just suppose if, after all, the earth should be a flat plain with thesun moving round it!" replied Tom scornfully. 

They were walking down the Strand; he did not speak for some minutes, infact he was looking at the people who passed by them. For the firsttime in his life a great contrast struck him. Disreputable vulgarity, wickedness, and vice stared him in the face, then involuntarily heturned to Erica and looked down at her scrutinizingly as he had neverlooked before. She was evidently wrapped in thought but it was not theintellect in her face which he thought of just then, though it was evernoticeable, nor was it the actual beauty of feature which struck him, itwas rather an undefined consciousness that here was a purity which wasadorable. From that moment he became no longer a boy, but a man witha high standard of womanhood. Instantly he thought with regret of hisscornful little speech--it was contemptible. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, abruptly, as if she had been following hiswhole train of thought. "Of course one is bound to study the questionfairly, but we have done that, and all that remains for us is to live asusefully as we can and as creditably to the cause as may be. "

They had turned down one of the dingy little streets leading to theriver, and now stood outside Professor Gosse's door. Erica did notreply. It was true she had heard arguments for and against Christianityall her life, but had she ever studied it with strict impartiality? Hadshe not always been strongly biased in favor of secularism? Had not Mr. Osmond gone unpleasantly near the mark when he warned her againstbeing prejudiced by the wrong-doing of a few modern Christians againstChristianity itself! She was coming now for special instruction inscience from one who was best calculated to teach; she would not havedreamed of asking instruction from one who was a disbeliever in science. Would the same apply in matters of religious belief? Was she boundactually to ask instruction from Charles Osmond, for instance, eventhough she believed that he taught error--harmful error? Yet who was tobe the judge of what was error, except by perfectly fair considerationof both sides of the case. Had she been fair? What was perfect fairness?

But people must go on living, and must speak and act even though theirminds are in a chaos of doubts and questionings. They had reachedProfessor Gosse's study, or as he himself called it, his workshop, and Erica turned with relief to the verifiable results of scientificinquiry. 

CHAPTER XI. The Wheels Run Down

 Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More, To him must needs be given, Who heareth heresy, and leaves The heretic to Heaven. Whittier. 

The clock in a neighboring church tower was just striking five on a warmafternoon in June. The pillar box stood at the corner of Guilford Squarenearest the church, and on this particular afternoon there chanced to beseveral people running at the last moment to post their letters. Amongothers were Brian and Erica. Brian, with a great bundle of parishnotices, had just reached the box when running down the other side ofthe square at full speed he saw his Undine carrying a bagful of letters. He had not met her for some weeks, for it happened to have been a busytime with him, and though she had been very good in coming to read toold Mrs. Osmond, he had always just missed her. 

"This is a funny meeting place, " she exclaimed, rather breathlessly. "Itnever struck me before what a truly national institution the post officeis--a place where people of all creeds and opinions can meet together, and are actually treated alike!"

Brian smiled. 

"You have been very busy, " he said, glancing at the innumerableenvelopes, which she was dropping as fast as might be into the narrowreceptacle. He could see that they were directed in her small, clear, delicate handwriting. 

"And you, too, " she said, looking at his diminished bundle. "Mine aresecularist circulars, and yours, I suppose, are the other kind of thing, but you see the same pillar eats them up quite contentedly. The postoffice is beautifully national, it sets a good example. "

She spoke lightly, but there was a peculiar tone in her voice whichbetrayed great weariness. It made Brian look at her more attentivelythan he had yet done--less from a lover's point of view, more from adoctor's. She was very pale. Though the running had brought a faintcolor to her cheeks, her lips were white, her forehead almost deathly. He knew that she had never really been well since her mother's death, but the change wrought within the last three weeks dismayed him; she wasthe mere shadow of her former self. 

"This hot weather is trying you, " he said. 

"Something is, " she replied. "Work, or weather, or worry, or the threecombined. "

"Come in and see my father, " said Brian, "and be idle for a little time;you will be writing more circulars if you go home. "

"No, they are all done, and my examination is over, and there is nothingspecial going on just now; I think that is why I feel so like breakingdown. "

After a little more persuasion, she consented to go in and see Mr. Osmond. The house always had a peculiarly restful feeling, and the merethought of rest was a relief to her; she would have liked the wheels oflife to stop for a little while, and there was rest in the mere changeof atmosphere. On the doorstep Brian encountered a patient, much to hisvexation; so he could only take Erica into the study, and go in searchof his father. He lingered however, just to tell him of his fears. 

"She looks perfectly worn out; you must find out what is wrong, father, and make her promise to see some one. "

His tone betrayed such anxiety that his father would not smile althoughhe was secretly amused at the task deputed to him. However, clergyman ashe was, he had a good deal of the doctor about him, and he had seen somuch of sickness and disease during his long years of hard work amongthe poor that he was after all about as ready an observer and as good ajudge as Brian could have selected. 

Erica, leaning back in the great easy chair, which had been moved intosummer quarters beside the window, heard the slow soft step she hadlearned to know so well, and before she had time to get up, found herhand in Charles Osmond's strong clasp. 

"How comfortable your chair is, " she said, smiling; "I believe I wasnearly asleep. "

He looked at her attentively, but without appearing to study her face inany way. She was very pale and there was an indefinable look of pain inher eyes. 

"Any news of the examination?" he asked, sitting down opposite her. 

"No, it is too soon yet, " she replied. "I thought I should have feltso anxious about it, but do you know, now that it is over, I can't makemyself care a bit. If I have failed altogether, I don't believe I shallmind very much. "

"Too tired to care for anything?"

"Yes, I seem to have come to the end. I wish I were a watch, and couldrun down and rest for a few days and be wound up again. "

He smiled. "What have you been doing with yourself to get so tired?"

"Oh, nothing particular; it has been rather a long day. Let me see! Inthe morning there were two delegates from Rilchester who had to bekept in a good temper till my father was ready for them; then there wasfather's bag to be packed, and a rush to get him off in time forthe morning express to Longstaff. Then I went to a lecture at SouthKensington, and then by train to Aldersgate Street to see Hazeldine'swife, who is unconscionable enough to live at the top of one of themodel lodging houses. Then she told me of another of our people whosechild is ill, and they lived in another row of Compton buildings upa hundred more steps, which left my back nearly broken. And the poorlittle child was fearfully ill, and it is so dreadful to see pain youcan do nothing for; it has made me feel wretched ever since. Then--letme think--oh, I got home and found Aunt Jean with a heap of circulars toget off, and there was a great rush to get them ready by post time. "

She paused; Charles Osmond withdrew his eyes from the careful scrutinyof her face, and noticed the position she had taken up in his chair. She was leaning back with her arms resting on the arms of the chair;not merely stretched out upon them, but rather as if she used themfor support. His eyes wandered back again to her face. After a shortsilence, he spoke. 

"You have been feeling very tired lately; you have had unaccountablepains flying about all over you, but specially your back has felt, asyou just said, somewhat 'broken. ' You have generally noticed thiswhen you have been walking, or bending over your desk writing for the'Idol-Breaker. '"

She laughed. 

"Now please don't turn into a clairvoyant; I shall begin to think youuncanny; and, besides, it would be an argument for Tom when we quarrelabout you. "

"Then my surmises are true?"

"Substitute first person singular for second plural, and it might havecome from my own lips, " said Erica, smiling. "But please stop; I'mafraid you will try to turn prophet next, and I'm sure you will prophesysomething horrid. "

"It would need no very clear-sighted prophet to prophesy that you willhave to let your wheels run down for a little while. "

"Do you mean that you think I shall die?" asked Erica, languidly. "Itwouldn't be at all convenient just now; father couldn't spare me. Do youknow, " and her face brightened, "he is really beginning to use me a gooddeal?"

"I didn't mean that I thought your wheels would run down in that way, "said Charles Osmond, touched by the pathos of her words. "I may even bewrong, but I think you will want a long rest, and I am quite sure youmustn't lose a day before seeing a doctor. I should like my brother tosee you; Brian is only junior partner, you know. "

"What, another Mr. Osmond! How muddled we shall get between you all!"said Erica, laughing. 

"I should think that Brian might be Brian by this time, " said CharlesOsmond; "that will dispose of one; and perhaps you would like to followthe example of one of my servants, who, I hear, invariably speaks of meas the 'dear rev. '"

Erica laughed. 

"No, I shall call you my 'prophet, ' though it is true you have begun bybeing a prophet of evil! By the bye, you can not say again that I am notimpartial. What do you think Tom and I did last week?"

"Read the New Testament backward?"

"No, we went to a Holy Scripture Society meeting at Exeter Hall. "

"Hope you were edified, " said Charles Osmond, with a little twinkle inhis eye; but he sighed, nevertheless. 

"Well, " said Erica, "it was rather curious to hear everything reversed, and there was a good deal of fun altogether. They talked a great dealabout the numbers of bibles, testaments, and portions which had beensent out. There was one man who spoke very broadly, and kept on speakingof the 'PORTIONS, ' and there was another whom we called the 'GreatDoor, ' because eight times in his speech he said that a great door hadbeen opened for them in Italy and other places. Altogether, I thoughtthem rather smug and self-satisfied, especially one man whose face shoneon the slightest provocation, and who remarked, in broad Lincolnshire, that they had been 'aboondantly blessed. ' After his speech a littleshort, sleek oily man got up, and talked about Providence. Apparentlyit had been very kind to him, and he thought the other sort of thingdid best for those who got it. But there were one or two really goodspeakers, and I dare say they were all in earnest. Still, you know, Tomand I felt rather like fish out of water, and especially when they beganto sing, 'Oh, Bible, blessed Bible!' and a lady would make me share herhymn book. Then, too, there was a collection, and the man made quitea pause in front of us, and of course we couldn't give anything. Altogether, I felt rather horrid and hypocritical for being there atall. "

"Is that your only experience of one of our meetings?"

"Oh, no, father took me with him two or three times to Westminster Abbeya good many years ago. We heard the dean; father admired him verymuch. I like Westminster Abbey. It seems to belong a little to us, too, because it is so national. And then it is so beautiful, and I likedhearing the music. I wonder, though, that you are not little afraid ofhaving it so much in your worship. I remember hearing a beautiful anthemthere once, which just thrilled one all through. I wonder that youdon't fear that people should mistake that for what you call spiritualfervor. "

"I think, perhaps, there is a danger in any undue introduction ofexternals, but any one whose spirit has ever been awakened will nevermistake the mere thrill of sensuous rapture for the quickening of thespirit by the Unseen. "

"You are talking riddles to me now!" said Erica; "but I feel sure thatsome of the people who go to church regularly only like it because ofthat appeal to the senses. I shall never forget going one afternoon intoNotre Dame with Mme. Lemercier. A flood of crimson and purple lightwas shining in through the south transept windows. You could see thewhite-robed priests and choristers--there was one boy with the mostperfect voice you can conceive. I don't know what they were singing, something very sweet and mournful, and, as that one voice rang up intothe vaulted roof, I saw Mme. Lemercier fall down on her knees and prayin a sort of rapture. Even I myself felt the tears come to my eyes, justbecause of the loveliness, and because the blood in one's veins seemedto bound. And then, still singing, the procession passed into the nave, and the lovely voice grew more and more distant. It was a wonderfuleffect; no doubt, the congregation thought they felt devout, but, ifso, then I too felt devout--quite as religious as they. Your spiritualfervor seems to me to resolve itself into artistic effect produced by anappeal to the senses and emotions. "

"And I must repeat my riddle, " said Charles Osmond, quietly. "Noawakened spirit could ever mistake the one for the other. It isimpossible! How impossible you will one day realize. "

"One evil prophesy is enough for today!" said Erica laughing. "If I stayany longer, you will be prophesying my acceptance of Christianity. No, no, my father will be grieved enough if your first prediction comestrue, but, if I were to turn Christian, I think it would break hisheart!"

She rose to go, and Charles Osmond went with her to the door, extractinga promise that she would discuss things with her aunt, and if sheapproved send for Mr. Osmond at once. He watched her across the square, then turning back into his study paced to and fro in deep thought. Erica's words rang in his ears. "If I were to turn Christian, I thinkit would break his heart. " How strangely this child was situated! Howalmost impossible it seemed that she could ever in this world come tothe light! And yet the difficulty might perhaps be no hindrance to oneso beautifully sincere, so ready to endure anything and everything forthe sake of what she now considered truth. She had all her father's zealand self-devotion; surely the offering up of self, even in amistaken cause, must sooner or later lead to the Originator of allself-sacrifice. Surely some of those who seem only to thwart God, honestly deeming Christianity a mischievous delusion, are really actingmore in His spirit, unconsciously better doing His will than many whoopenly declare themselves on His side! Yet, as Charles Osmond musedover the past lives of Luke Raeburn and his daughter, and picturedtheir probable future, a great grief filled his heart. They wee both solovable, so noble! That they should miss in a great measure the best oflife seemed such a grievous pity! The chances that either of them wouldrenounce atheism were, he could not but feel, infinitesimally small. Much smaller for the father than for the child. 

It was true, indeed, that she had never fairly grasped any real idea ofthe character of Christ. He had once grasped it to a certain extent, andhad lost the perception of its beauty and truth. It was true also thatErica's transparent sincerity, her quick perception of the beautifulmight help very greatly to overcome her deeply ingrained prejudices. Buteven then what an agony--what a fearful struggle would lie before her;"I think it would break his heart!" Charles Osmond felt his breathcome fast and hard at the mere thought of such a difference between thefather and daughter! Could human strength possibly be equal to sucha terrible trial? For these two were everything to each other. Ericaworshipped her father, and Raeburn's fatherhood was the truest, deepest, tenderest part of his character. No, human strength could not do it, but--

"I am; nyle ye drede!"

His eye fell on a little illuminated scroll above his mantelpiece, Wycliff's rendering of Christ's reassuring words to the fearfuldisciples. Yes, with the revelation of Himself, He would give thestrength, make it possible to dread nothing, not even the inflictionof grief to one's nearest and dearest. Much pain, much sacrifice therewould be in his service, but dread--never. The strength of the "I am, "bade it forever cease. In that strength the weakest could conquer. 

But he had wondered on into a dim future, had pictured a strugglewhich in all probability would not take place. Even were that the case, however, he needed these words of assurance all the more himself. Theywove themselves into his reverie as he paced to an fro; they led himfurther and further away from perplexed surmises as to the future ofRaeburn and Erica, but closer to their souls, because they took himstraight to the "God and father of all, who is above all, and throughall, and in all. "

The next morning as he was preparing a sermon for the following Sunday, there came a knock at his study door. His brother came in. He was a finelooking man of two or three-and-fifty. 

"I can't stay, " he said, "I've a long round, but I just looked in totell you about your little heretic. "

Charles Osmond looked up anxiously. 

"It is as you thought, " continued his brother. "Slight curvature of thespine. She's a brave little thing; I don't wonder you are interested inher. "

"It means a long rest, I suppose?"

"Yes, I told her a year in a recumbent posture; for I fancy she isone of those restless beings who will do nothing at all unless you arepretty plain with them. It is possible that six or eight months may besufficient. "

"How did she take it?"

"Oh, in the pluckiest way you can conceive! Tried to laugh at theprospect, wanted me to measure her to see how much she grew in the time, and said she should expect at least three inches to reward her. "

"A Raeburn could hardly be deficient in courage. Luke Raeburn is withoutexception the bravest man I ever met. "

"And I'd back his daughter against any woman I know, " said the doctor. 

He left the room, but the news he had brought caused a long pause in hisbrother's sermon. 

CHAPTER XII. Raeburn's Homecoming

 He is a man both loving and severe, A tender heart, a will inflexible. Longfellow

Luke Raeburn had been lecturing in one of the large manufacturing towns. It was the hottest part of a sultry day in June. He was returning home, and sat in a broiling third-class carriage reading a paper. Apparentlywhat he read was the reverse of gratifying for there was a look ofannoyance on his usually serene face; he was displeased with the reportof his lecture given in the local papers, it was calculated to misleadvery greatly. 

Other matters, too, were harassing him just then and he was, moreover, paying the penalty of his two years' campaign, in which his almostsuperhuman exertions and the privations he had voluntarily endured hadtold severely upon his health. Possessed of a singularly well-regulatedmind, and having in an unusual degree the inestimable gift of commonsense, he nevertheless often failed to use it in his personal affairs. He had no idea of sparing himself, no idea of husbanding hisstrength; this was indeed great, but he treated himself as if it wereinexhaustible. The months of trouble had turned his hair quite white; hewas now a more noticeable-looking man than ever. 

Not unfrequently he made friends with the men with whom he traveled; hewas always studying life from the workingman's point of view, andthere was such a charm in his genial manner and ready sympathy that heinvariably succeeded in drawing people out. But on this day he was notin the humor for it; instead, he thought over the abusive articleand the mangled report in the "Longstaff Mercury, " and debated withinhimself whether it were worth an action for libel. His love of fightingsaid yes, his common sense said no; and in the end common sense won theday, but left him doubly depressed. He moved to the shady side of thecarriage and looked out of the window. He was a great lover of Nature, and Nature was looking her loveliest just then. The trees, in all thefreshness of early June, lifted their foliage to the bluest of skies, the meadows were golden with buttercups, the cattle grazed peacefully, the hay fields waved unmown in the soft summer air, which, thoughsparing no breath for the hot and dusty traveler, was yet strong enoughto sweep over the tall grasses in long, undulating waves that made themshimmer in the sunlight. 

Raeburn's face grew serene once more; he had a very quick perception ofthe beautiful. Presently he retired again behind a newspaper, this timethe "Daily Review, " and again his brow grew stern, for there was badnews from the seat of war; he read the account of a great battle, readthe numbers of his slain countrymen, and of those who had fallen on theenemy's side. It was an unrighteous war, and his heart burned withinhim at the thought of the inhuman havoc thus caused by a false ambition. Again, as if he were fated that day to be confronted with the dark sideof life, the papers gave a long account of a discovery made in somecharity school, where young children had been hideously ill-treated. Raeburn, who was the most fatherly of men, could hardly restrain theexpression of his righteous indignation. All this mismanagement, thisreckless waste of life, this shameful cruelty, was going on in what wascalled "Free England. " And here was he, a middle-aged man, and timewas passing on with frightful rapidity, and though he had never lost anopportunity of lifting up his voice against oppression, how little hadhe actually accomplished!

"So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be!"

That was the burden of the unuttered cry which filled his whole being. That was the point where his atheism often brought him to a nobledespair. But far from prompting him to repeat the maxim "Let us eat anddrink, for tomorrow we die!" it spurred him rather to a sort of fieryenergy, never satisfied with what it had accomplished. Neither thedissatisfaction, however, nor even the despair ever made him feel theneed of any power above man. On the contrary, the unaccountable mysteryof pain and evil was his strongest argument against the existence of aGod. Upon that rock he had foundered as a mere boy, and no argument hadever been able to reconvince him. Impatience of present ill had in this, as in many other cases, proved the bane of his life. 

He would write and speak about these cases of injustice, he would holdthem up to the obloquy they so richly deserved. 

Scathing sentences already took shape in his brain, but deeperinvestigation would be necessary before he could write anything. Inthe meantime to cool himself, to bring himself into a judicial frameof mind, he took a Hebrew book from his bag, and spent the rest of thejourney in hard study. 

Harassed, and tired, and out of spirits as he was, he nevertheless felta certain pleasurable sensation as he left St. Pancras, driving homewardthrough the hot crowded streets. Erica would be waiting for him at home, and he had a comparatively leisure afternoon. There was the meeting onthe Opium Trade at eight, but he might take her for a turn in one of theparks beforehand. She had always been a companion to him since her verybabyhood, but now he was able to enjoy her companionship even morethan in the olden times. Her keen intellect, her ready sympathy, hereagerness to learn, made her the perfection of a disciple, while notunnaturally he delighted in tracing the many similarities of characterbetween himself and his child. Then, too, in his hard, argumentative, fighting life it was an unspeakable relief to be able to retire everynow and then into a home which no outer storms could shake or disturb. Fond as he was of his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and Tom, they constitutedrather the innermost circle of his friends and followers; it was Ericawho made the HOME, though the others shared the house. It was to Erica'spure child-like devotion that he invariably turned for comfort. 

Dismissing the cab at the corner of Guilford Square, he walked downthe dreary little passage, looking up at the window to see if she werewatching for him as usual. But today there was no expectant face; herecollected, however, that it was Thursday, always a busy day with them. 

He opened the door with his latch key, and went in; still there wasno sound in the house; he half paused for an instant, thinking that heshould certainly hear her quick footsteps, the opening of a door, somesign of welcome, but all was as silent as death. Half angry with himselffor having grown so expectant of that loving watch as to be seriouslyapprehensive at its absence, he hastily put down his bag and walkedinto the sitting room, his calm exterior belying a nameless fear at hisheart. 

What the French call expressively a "serrement de coeur" seized himwhen he saw that Erica was indeed at home, but that she was lying on thecouch. She did not even spring up to greet him. 

"Is anything the matter, dear? Are you ill?" he asked, hurriedlycrossing the little room. 

"Oh, have you not seen Aunt Jean? She was going to meet you at St. Pancras, " said Erica, her heart failing her a little at the prospect oftelling her own bad news. But the exceeding anxiety of her father'sface helped her to rise to the occasion. She laughed, and the laugh wasnatural enough to reassure him. 

"It is nothing so very dreadful, and all this time you have never evengiven me a kiss, father. " She drew down the grand-looking white head, and pressed her fair face to his. He sat down beside her. 

"Tell me, dear, what is wrong with you?" he repeated. 

"Well, I felt rather out of order, and they said I ought to see someone, and it seems that my tiresome spine is getting crooked, and thelong and the short of it is that Mr. Doctor Osmond says I shall getquite well again if I'm careful; but" she added, lightly, yet with thegentleness of one who thinks merely of the hearer's point of view "Ishall have to be a passive verb for a year, and you will have to be myvery strong man Kwasind. '"

"A year?" he exclaimed in dismay. 

"Brian half gave me hope that it might not be so long, " said Erica, "ifI'm very good and careful, and of course I shall be both. I am onlysorry because it will make me very useless. I did hope I should neverhave been a burden on you again, father. "

"Don't talk of such a thing, my little son Eric, " he said, verytenderly. "Who should take care of you if not your own father? Besides, if you never wrote another line for me, you would help me by just beingyourself. A burden!"

"Well, I've made you look as grave as half a dozen lawsuits, " saidErica, pretending to stroke the lines of care from his forehead. "I'vehad the morning to ruminate over the prospect, and really now that youknow, it is not so very dreadful. A year will soon pass. "

"I look to you, Eric, " said her father, "to show the world that wesecularists know how to bear pain. You won't waste the year if you cando it. "

Her face lighted up. 

"It was like you to think of that!" she said; "that would indeed beworth doing. "

Still, do what she would, Erica could not talk him back to cheerfulness. He was terribly distressed at her news, and more so when he found thatshe was suffering a good deal. He thought with a pang of the differenceof the reality to his expectations. No walk for them in the park thatevening, nor probably for many years to come. Yet he was ignorant ofthese matters, perhaps he exaggerated the danger or the duration; hewould go across and see Brian Osmond at once. 

Left once more to herself, the color died out of Erica's cheeks; she laythere pale and still, but her face was almost rigid with resoluteness. 

"I am not going to give way!" she thought to herself. "I won't shed asingle tear. Tears are wasteful luxuries, bad for body and mind. And yetyet oh, it is hard just when I wanted to help father most! Just whenI wanted to keep him from being worried. And a whole year! How shall Ibear it, when even six hours has seemed half a life time! This is whatThekla would call a cross, but I only call it my horrid, stupid, idioticold spine. Well, I must try to show them that Luke Raeburn's daughterknows how to bear pain; I must be patient, however much I boil over inprivate. Yet is it honest, I wonder, to keep a patient outside, whileinside you are all one big grumble? Rather Pharisaical outside of thecup and platter; but it is all I shall be able to do, I'm sure. That iswhere Mr. Osmond's Christianity would come in; I do believe that goesright through his life, privatest thoughts and all. Odd, that a delusionshould have such power, and over such a man! There is Sir MichaelCunningham, too, one of the greatest and best men in England, yeta Christian! Great intellects and much study, and still they remainChristians 'tis extraordinary. But a Christian would have the advantageover me in a case like this. First of all, I suppose, they would feelthat they could serve their God as well on their backs as upright, whileall the help I shall be able to give the cause is dreadfully indirectand problematical. Then certainly they would feel that they might begetting ready for the next world where all wrong is, they believe, to beset right, while I am only terribly hindered in getting ready for thisworld a whole year without the chance of a lecture. And then they haveall kinds of nice theories about pain, discipline, and that sort ofthing, which no doubt make it more bearable, while to me it is justthe one unmitigated evil. But, oh! They don't know what pain means! Forthere is no death to them no endless separation. What a delusion it is!They ought to be happy enough. Oh, mother! mother!"

After all, what she really dreaded in her enforced pause was the leisurefor thought. She had plunged into work of all kinds, had half killedherself with work, had tried to hold her despair at arms' length. Butnow there was no help for it. She must rest, and the thoughts must come. 

CHAPTER XIII. Losing One Friend to Gain Another

 For toleration had its griefs, And charity its trial. Whittier

"Well, Osmond, you got into hot water a few years ago for defendingRaeburn in public, and by this time you will find it not merely hot, butup to boiling point. The fellow is more notorious than ever. "

The speaker was one of Charles Osmond's college friends, a certain Mr. Roberts, who had been abroad for a good many years, but, having returnedon account of his health, had for a few months been acting as curate tohis friend. 

"A man who works as indefatigably as Mr. Raeburn has done can hardlyavoid being noticed, " replied Charles Osmond. 

"You speak as if you admired the fellow!"

"There is a good deal to admire in Mr. Raeburn. However greatly mistakenhe is, there is no doubt that he is a brave man, and an honest man. "

"You can speak in such a way of a man who makes his living by speakingand writing against God. "

"I hope I can speak the truth of every man, whether his creed agreeswith mine or not. "

"A man who grows rich on blasphemy! Who sows poison among the people andreaps the harvest!" exclaimed Mr. Roberts. 

"That he teaches fearful error, I quite allow, " said Charles Osmond, "but it is the grossest injustice to say that he does it for gain. Hisatheism brought him to the very brink of starvation some years ago. Evennow he is so crippled by the endless litigation he has had that he livesin absolute penury. "

"But that letter you sent to the 'Church Chronicle' was so uncalled for, you put the comparison so broadly. "

"I put it in plain 'English', " said Charles Osmond, "I merely said, asI think, that he puts many of us to shame by his great devotion. Theletter was a reply to a very unfair article about the Rilchester riot;it was absolutely necessary that some one should speak. I tell you, Roberts, if you knew the man, you could not speak so bitterly of him. It is not true that he leads a selfish, easy-going life; he has spentthousands and thousands of pounds in the defense of his cause. I don'tbelieve there is a man in England who has led a more self-denying life. It may be very uncomfortable news for us, but we've no right to shut ourears to it. I wish that man could stir up an honest sense of shame inevery sleepy Christian in the country. I believe that, indeed, to be hisrightful mission. Raeburn is a grand text for a sermon which thenation sorely needs. Here is a man who spends his whole strength inpropagating his so-called gospel of atheism. Do you spend your wholestrength in spreading the gospel of Christ? Here is a man, willingto leave his home, willing to live without one single luxury, denyinghimself all that is not necessary to actual health. Have you ever deniedyourself anything? Here is a man who spends his whole living all that hehas on what he believes to be the truth. What meager tithe do you bestowupon the religion of which you speak so much? Here is a man who daresto stand up alone in defense of what he holds true, a man who neverflinches. How far are you brave in the defense of your faith? Do younever keep a prudent silence? Do you never 'howl with the wolves?'"

"Thank Heaven you are not in the pulpit!" ejaculated Mr. Roberts. 

"I wish those words could be sent through the length and breadth of theland, " said Charles Osmond. 

"No doubt Mr. Raeburn would thank you, " said his friend, with asharp-edged smile. "It would be a nice little advertisement for him. Why, from a Church of England parson it would make his fortune! My dearOsmond, you are the best fellow in the world, but don't you see that youare playing into the enemy's hands. "

"I am trying to speak the words that God has given me to speak, " saidCharles Osmond. "The result I can well trust to Him. An uncomfortabletruth will never be popular. The words of our Lord Himself were notpopular; but they sunk into men's hearts and bore fruit, though He wasput to death as a blasphemer and a revolutionary. "

"Well, at least then, if you must take up the cudgels in his defense, donot dishonor the clerical profession by personal acquaintance with theman. I hear that he has been seen actually in your house, that you areeven intimate with his family. "

"Roberts, I didn't think our beliefs were so very different. In fact, I used to think we were nearer to each other on these points than mostmen. Surely we both own the universal Fatherhood of God?"

"Of course, of course, " said Mr. Roberts, quickly. 

"And owning that, we cannot help owning the universal brotherhoodof men. Why should you then cut yourself off from your brother, LukeRaeburn?"

"He's no brother of mine!" said Mr. Roberts, in a tone of disgust. 

Charles Osmond smiled. 

"We do not choose our brothers, we have no voice in the growth of thefamily. There they are. "

"But the man says there is no God. "

"Excuse me, he has never said that. What he says is, that the word Godconveys no meaning to him. If you think that the best way to show yourbelief in the All-Father and your love to all His children lies inrefusing so much as to touch those who don't know Him, you are of coursejustified in shunning every atheist or agnostic in the world. But I donot think that the best way. It was not Christ's way. Therefore, I hailevery possible opportunity of meeting Mr. Raeburn or his colleagues, tryto find all the points we have in common, try as far as possible to meetthem on their own ground. "

"And the result will be that people will call you an atheist yourself!"broke in Mr. Roberts. 

"That would not greatly matter, " said Charles Osmond. "It would be amere sting for the moment. It is not what men call us that we have toconsider, but how we are fulfilling the work God has given us to do. "

"'Pon my life, it makes me feel sick to hear you talk like this aboutthat miserable Raeburn!" exclaimed Mr. Roberts, hotly. "I tell you, Osmond, that you are ruining your reputation, losing all chance ofpreferment, just because of this mistaken zeal. It makes me furiousto think that such a man as you should suffer for such a creature asRaeburn. "

"Have you forgotten that such creatures as you and I and Luke Raeburnhad such a Saviour as Jesus Christ? Come, Roberts, in your heart youknow you agree with me. If one is indeed our Father, then indeed we areall brethren. "

"I do not hold with you!" retorted Mr. Roberts, the more angrily becausehe had really hoped to convince his friend. "I wouldn't sit in the sameroom with the fellow if you offered me the richest living in England. Iwouldn't shake hands with him to be made an archbishop. I wouldn't touchhim with a pair of tongs. "

"Even less charitable than St. Dunstan to the devil, " said CharlesOsmond, smiling a little, but sadly. "Except in that old legend, however, I don't think Christianity ever mentions tongs. If you can'tlove your enemies, and pray for them, and hold out a brotherly hand tothem, perhaps it were indeed better to hold aloof and keep as quiet asyou can. "

"It is clearly impossible for us to work together any longer, Osmond, "said Mr. Roberts, rising. "I am sorry that such a cause should separateus, but if you will persist in visiting an outcast of society, aprofessed atheist, the most bitter enemy of our church, I cannot allowmy name to be associated with yours it is impossible that I should holdoffice under you. "

So the two friends parted. 

Charles Osmond was human, and almost inevitably a sort of reactionbegan in his mind the instant he was alone. He had lost one of his bestfriends, he knew as well as possible that they could never be onthe same footing as before. He had, moreover, lost in him a valuableco-worker. Then, too, it was true enough that his defense of Raeburn wasbringing him into great disfavor with the religious world, and he was asensitive and naturally a proud man, who found blame, and reproach, and contemptuous disapproval very hard to bear. Years of hard fighting, years of patient imitation of Christ had wonderfully ennobled him, buthe had not yet attained to the sublime humility which, being free fromall thought of self, cares nothing, scarcely even pauses to think ofthe world's judgment, too absorbed in the work of the Highest to haveleisure for thought of the lowest, too full of love for the race to havelove to spare for self. To this ideal he was struggling, but he had notyet reached it, and the thought of his own reputation, his own feelingswould creep in. He was not a selfishly ambitious man, but every one whois conscious of ability, every one who feels within him energies lyingfallow for want of opportunity, must be ambitious for a larger sphere ofwork. Just as he was beginning to dare to allow himself the hope of somechange in his work, some wider field, just as he was growing sure enoughof himself to dare to accept any greater work which might have beenoffered to him, he must, by bringing himself into evil repute, loseevery chance of preferment. And for what? For attempting to obtain ajust judgment for the enemy of his faith; for holding out a brotherlyhand to a man who might very probably not care to take it; forconsorting with those who would at best regard him as an amiablefanatic. Was this worth all it would cost? Could the exceedinglyproblematical gain make up for the absolutely certain loss?

He took up the day's newspaper. His eye was at once attracted to aparagraph headed: "Mr. Raeburn at Longstaff. " The report, sent fromthe same source as the report in the "Longstaff Mercury, " which had sogreatly displeased Raeburn that morning, struck Charles Osmond in a mostunfavorable light. This bitter opponent of Christianity, this unsparingdenouncer of all that he held most sacred, THIS was the man for whomhe was sacrificing friendship, reputation, advancement. A feeling ofabsolute disgust rose within him. For a moment the thought came: "Ican't have any more to do with the man. "

But he was too honest not to detect almost at once his own Pharisaical, un-Christlike spirit. 

"Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the thingsof others. Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus. "

He had been selfishly consulting his own happiness, his own ease. Worsestill, he, of all men in the world, had dared to set himself up as toovirtuous forsooth to have anything to do with an atheist. Was thatthe mind which was in Christ? Was He a strait-laced, self-righteousPharisee, too good, too religious to have anything to say to thosewho disagreed with Him? Did He not live and die for those who are yetenemies to God? Was not the work of reconciliation the work he came for?Did He calculate the loss to Himself, the risk of failure? Ah, no, thosewho would imitate God must first give as a free gift, without thoughtof self, perfect love to all, perfect justice through that love, or elsethey are not like the Father who "maketh His sun to shine on the eviland the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. "

Charles Osmond paced to and fro, the look of trouble gradually passingfrom his face. Presently he paused beside the open window; it lookedupon the little back garden, a tiny strip of ground, indeed, but justnow bright with sunshine and fresh with the beauty of early summer. Thesunshine seemed to steal into his heart as he prayed. 

"All-Father, drive out my selfish cowardice, my self-righteous conceit. Give me Thy spirit of perfect love to all, give me Thy pure hatred ofsin. Melt my coldness with Thy burning charity, and if it be possiblemake me fit to be Luke Raeburn's friend. "

While he still stood by the window a visitor was announced. He had beentoo much absorbed to catch the name, but it seemed the most naturalthing that on turning round he should find himself face to face with theprophet of atheism. 

There he stood, a splendid specimen of humanity; every line in hisrugged Scottish face bespoke a character of extraordinary force, but theeyes which in public Charles Osmond had seen flashing with the fireof the man's enthusiasm, or gleaming with a cold metallic light whichindicated exactly his steely endurance of ill treatment, were nowsoftened and deepened by sadness. His heart went out to him. Alreadyhe loved the man, only hitherto the world's opinions had crept into hisheart between each meeting, and had paralyzed the free God-like love. But it was to do so no longer. That afternoon he had dealt it a finalblow, there was no more any room for it to rear its fair-speakingform, no longer should its veiled selfishness, its so-called virtuousindignation turn him into a Pharisaical judge. 

He received him with a hand shake which conveyed to Raeburn much of thewarmth, the reality, the friendliness of the man. He had always likedCharles Osmond, but he had generally met him either in public, or whenhe was harassed and preoccupied. Now, when he was at leisure, when, too, he was in great trouble, he instinctively perceived that Osmond had in arare degree the broad-hearted sympathy which he was just now in need of. From that minute a life-long friendship sprung up between the two men. 

"I came really to see your son, " said Raeburn, "but they tell me he isout. I wish to know the whole truth about Erica. " It was not his way tospeak very much where he felt deeply, and Charles Osmond could detectall the deep anxiety, the half-indulged hope which lay hidden behind thestrong reserved exterior. He had heard enough of the case to be able tosatisfy him, to assure him that there was no danger, that all mustbe left to time and patience and careful observance of the doctor'sregulations. Raeburn sighed with relief at the repeated assurance thatthere was no danger, that recovery was only a question of time. Deathhad so recently visited his home that a grisly fear had taken possessionof his heart. Once free of that, he could speak almost cheerfully of thelesser evil. 

"It will be a great trial to her, such absolute imprisonment; sheis never happy unless she is hard at work. But she is brave andstrong-willed. Will you look in and see her when you can?"

"Certainly, " said Charles Osmond. "We must do our best to keep up herspirits. "

"Yes, luckily she is a great reader, otherwise such a long rest would beintolerable, I should fancy. "

"You do not object to my coming to see her?" said Charles Osmond, looking full into his companion's eyes. "You know that we discussreligious questions pretty freely. "

"Religious questions always are freely discussed in my house, " saidRaeburn. "It will be the greatest advantage to her to have to turnthings well over in her mind. Besides, we always make a point ofstudying our adversaries' case even more closely than our own, and, ifshe has a chance of doing it personally as well as through books, allthe better. "

"But supposing that such an unlikely thing were to happen as that sheshould see reason to change her present views? Supposing, if you cansuppose anything so unlikely, she should ever in future years come tobelieve in Christianity?"

Raeburn smiled, not quite pleasantly. 

"It is as you say such a very remote contingency!" He paused, grewgrave, then continued with all his native nobility: "Yet I like you thebetter for having brought forward such an idea, improbable as I hope itmay be considered. I feel very sure of Erica. She has thought a greatdeal, she has had every possible advantage. We never teach on authority;she has been left perfectly free and has learned to weigh evidences andprobabilities, not to be led astray by any emotional fancies, but to beguided by reason. She has always heard both sides of the case; she haslived as it were in an atmosphere of debate, and has been, and of coursealways will be, quite free to form her own opinion on every subject. Itis not for nothing that we call ourselves Freethinkers. Absolute freedomof thought and speech is part of our creed. So far from objecting toyour holding free discussions with my daughter, I shall be positivelygrateful to you, and particularly just now. I fancy Erica has inheritedenough of my nature to enjoy nothing better than a little opposition. "

"I know you are a born fighter, " said Charles Osmond. "We sympathizewith each other in that. And next to the bliss of a hard-won victory, Iplace the satisfaction of being well conquered. "

Raeburn laughed. 

"I am glad we think alike there. People are very fond of describing meas a big bull dog, but if they would think a little, they would see thatthe love of overcoming obstacles is deeply rooted in the heart of everytrue man. What is the meaning of our English love of field sports? Whatthe explanation of the mania for Alpine climbing? It is no despicablecraving for distinction, it is the innate love of fighting, struggling, and conquering. "

"Well, there are many obstacles which we can struggle to remove, side byside, " said Charles Osmond. "We should be like one man, I fancy on thequestion of the opium trade, for instance. "

In a few vigorous words Raeburn denounced this monstrous national sin. 

"Are you going to the meeting tonight?" he added, after a pause. 

"Yes, I had thought of it. Let us go together. Shall you speak?"

"Not tonight, " said Raeburn, a smile flickering about his usually sternlips. "The Right Reverend Father, etc. , etc. , who is to occupy thechair, might object to announcing that 'Mr. Raeburn would now addressthe meeting. ' No, this is not the time or place for me. So prejudicedare people that the mere connection of my name with the question wouldprobably do more harm than good. I should like, I confess, to get upwithout introduction, to speak not from the platform but from amongthe audience incognito. But that is impossible for a man who has themisfortune to be five inches above the average height, and whose whitehair has become a proverb, since some one made the unfortunate remark, repeated in a hundred newspapers, that the 'hoary head was only a crownof glory when found in the way of righteousness. '"

Charles Osmond could not help laughing. 

"The worst of these newspaper days is that one never can make an end ofanything. That remark has been made to me since at several meetings. At the last, I told the speaker that I was so tired of comments on mypersonal appearance that I should soon have to resort either to thedyer or the wigmaker. But here am I wasting your time and my own, andforgetting the poor little maid at home. Goodbye. I'll call in passing, then, at a quarter to eight. Tom Craigie will probably be with me, he isvery rabid on the subject. "

"Craigie and I are quite old friends, " said Charles Osmond. 

And then, as on the preceding night he had stood at the door while Ericacrossed the square, so now involuntarily his eyes followed Raeburn. In his very walk the character of the man was indicated firm, steady, imperturbable, straightforward. 

CHAPTER XIV. Charles Osmond Speaks His Mind

 Fiat justitia ruat coelum. Proverb

 Justice, the miracle worker among men. John Bright (July 14, 1868. )

"I thought you were never coming to see me, " said Erica, putting down anewspaper and looking up with eager welcome at Charles Osmond, who hadjust been announced. 

"It has not been for want of will, " he replied, sitting down near hercouch, "but I have been overwhelmed with work the last few days. How areyou getting on? I'm glad you don't altogether refuse to see your prophetof evil. "

"It would have been worse if you hadn't spoken, " she said, in the toneof one trying hard to make the best of things. "I was rather rash thoughto say that I should like my wheels to run down; I didn't know howterrible it is to be still. One does so grudge all the lost time. "

"But you will not let this be lost time you will read. "

"Oh, yes, happily I can do that. And Mrs. McNaughton is going to giveme physiology lessons, and dear old Professor Gosse has promised to comeand teach me whenever he can. He is so devoted to father, you know, Ithink he would do anything for me just because I am his child. It isa comfort that father has so many real good friends. What I do so hatethough is the thought of having to be a passive verb for so long. You'veno idea how aggravating it is to lie here and listen to all that isgoing on, to hear of great meetings and not to be able to go, to hear ofwork to be done and not to be able to do it. And I suppose one noticeslittle things more when one is ill, for just to lie still and watchour clumsy little servant lay the table for dinner, clattering down theknives and forks and tossing down the plates, makes me actually cross. And then they let the room get so untidy; just look at that stack ofbooks for reviewing, and that chaos of papers in the corner. If I couldbut get up for just five minutes I shouldn't mind. "

"Poor child, " said Charles Osmond, "this comes very hard on you. "

"I know I'm grumbling dreadfully, but if you knew how horrid it is tobe cut off from everything! And, of course, it happens that anothercontroversy is beginning about that Longstaff report. I have beenreading half a dozen of today's newspapers, and each one is worse thanthe last. Look here! Just read that, and try to imagine that it's yourfather they are slandering! Oh, if I could but get up for one minute andstamp!"

"And is this untrue?" asked Charles Osmond, when he had finished theaccount in question. 

"There is just enough truth in it to make it worse than a direct lie, "said Erica, hotly. "They have quoted his own words, but in a sense inwhich he never meant them, or they have quite disregarded the context. If you will give me those books on the table, I'll just show you howthey have misrepresented him by hacking out single sentences, andtwisting and distorting all he says in public. "

Charles Osmond looked at the passages referred to, and saw that Ericahad not complained without reason. 

"Yes, that is very unfair shamefully unfair, " he said. Then, after apause, he added, abruptly: "Erica, are you good at languages?"

"I am very fond of them, " she said, surprised at the sudden turn he hadgiven to the conversation. 

"Supposing that Mr. Raeburn's speeches and doings were a good dealspoken of in Europe, as no doubt they are, and that a long time afterhis death one of his successors made some converts to secularism inItaly, and wrote in Italian all that he could remember of the life andwords of his late teacher. Then suppose that the Italian life of Raeburnwas translated into Chinese, and that hundreds of years after, aheathen Chinee sat down to read it. His Oriental mind found it hard tounderstand Mr. Raeburn's thoroughly Western mind; he didn't see anythingnoble in Mr. Raeburn's character, couldn't understand his mode ofthought, read through the life, perhaps studied it after a fashion, orbelieved he did; then shut it up, and said there might possibly havebeen such a man, but the proofs were very weak, and, even if he hadlived, he didn't think he was any great shakes, though the people didmake such a fuss about him. Would you call that heathen Chinee fair?"

Erica could not help smiling, though she saw what he was driving at. 

But Charles Osmond felt much too keenly to continue in such a lightstrain. He was no weak-minded, pleasant conversationalist, but aprophet, who knew how to speak hard truths sometimes. 

"Erica, " he said, almost sternly, "you talk much about those who quoteyour father's words unfairly; but have you never misquoted the words ofChrist? You deny Him and disbelieve in Him, yet you have never reallystudied His life. You have read the New Testament through a veil ofprejudice. Mind, I am not saying one word in defense of those so-calledChristians who treat you unfairly or uncharitably; but I do say that, asfar as I can see, you are quite as unfair to Christ as they are to yourfather. Of course, you may reply that Jesus of Nazareth lived nearlynineteen hundred years ago, and that your father is still living; thatyou have many difficulties and doubts to combat, while our bigots canverify every fact or quotation with regard to Mr. Raeburn with perfectease and certainty. That is true enough. But the difficulties, ifhonestly faced, might be surmounted. You don't honestly face them; yousay to yourself, 'I have gone into all these matters carefully, and nowI have finally made up my mind; there is an end of the matter!' Youare naturally prejudiced against Christ; every day your prejudices willdeepen unless you strike out resolutely for yourself as a truth-seeker, as one who insists on always considering all sides of the question. At present you are absolutely unfair, you will not take the trouble tostudy the life of Christ. "

Few people like to be told of their faults. Erica could just endure itfrom her father, but from no one else. She was, besides, too youngyet to have learned even the meaning of the word humility. Had CharlesOsmond been a few years younger, she would not even have listened tohim. As it was, he was a gray-haired man, whom she loved and revered; hewas, moreover, a guest. She was very angry with him, but she restrainedher anger. 

He had watched her attentively while he spoke. She had at first onlybeen surprised; then her anger had been kindled, and she gave him oneswift flash from eyes which looked like live coals. Then she turned herface away from him, so that he could only see one crimson cheek. Therewas a pause after he had said his say. Presently, with a great effort, Erica faced him once more, and in a manner which would have beendignified had it not been a trifle too frigid, made some casual remarkupon a different subject. He saw that to stay longer was mere waste oftime. 

When the door had closed behind him, Erica's anger blazed up once more. That he should have dared to accuse her of unfairness! That he shouldhave dared actually to rebuke her! If he had given her a good shakingshe could not have felt more hurt and ruffled. And then to choose thisday of all others, just when life was so hard to her, just when she wascondemned to a long imprisonment. It was simply brutal of him! Ifany one had told her that he would do such a thing she would not havebelieved them. He had said nothing of the sort to her before, thoughthey had known each other so long; but, now that she was ill andhelpless and unable to get away from him, he had seen fit to come andlecture her. Well, he was a parson! She might have known that sooner orlater the horrid, tyrannical, priestly side of him would show! And yetshe had liked him so much, trusted him so much! It was indescribablybitter to think that he was no longer the hero she had thought him tobe. That, after all, he was not a grand, noble, self-denying man, but afault-finding priest!

She spent the rest of the afternoon in alternate wrath and grief. In theevening Aunt Jean read her a somewhat dry book which required all herattention, and, consequently, her anger cooled for want of thoughts tostimulate it. Her father did not come in till late; but, as he carriedher upstairs to bed, she told him of Charles Osmond's interview. 

"I told him you like a little opposition, " was his reply. 

"I don't know about opposition, but I didn't like him, he showed hispriestly side. "

"I am sorry, " replied Raeburn. "For my part I genuinely like the man;he seems to me a grand fellow, and I should have said not in theleast spoiled by his Christianity, for he is neither exclusive, nornarrow-minded, nor opposed to progress. Infatuated on one point, ofcourse, but a thorough man in spite of it. "

Left once more alone in her little attic room, Erica began to thinkover things more quietly. So her father had told him that she likedopposition, and he had doled out to her a rebuke which was absolutelyunanswerable! But why unanswerable? She had been too angry to reply atthe time. It was one of the few maxims her father had given her, "Whenyou are angry be very slow to speak. " But she might write an answer, anice, cold, cutting answer, respectful, of course, but very frigid. Shewould clearly demonstrate to him that she was perfectly fair, and thathe, her accuser, was unfair. 

And then quite quietly, she began to turn over the accusations inher mind. Quoting the words of Christ without regard to the context, twisting their meaning. Neglecting real study of Christ's character andlife. Seeing all through a veil of prejudice. 

She would begin, like her father, with a definition of terms. Whatdid he mean by study? What did she mean by study? Well such searchinganalysis, for instance, as she had applied to the character ofHamlet, when she had had to get up one of Shakespeare's plays for herexamination. She had worked very hard at that, had really taken everyone of his speeches and soliloquies, and had tried to gather his truecharacter from them as well as from his actions. 

At this point she wandered away from the subject a little and began towonder when she should hear the result of the examination, and to hopethat she might get a first. By and by she came to herself with a suddenand very uncomfortable shock. If the sort of work she had given toHamlet was study, HAD she ever studied the character of Christ?

She had all her life heard what her father had to say against Him, andwhat a good many well-meaning, but not very convincing, people had tosay for Him. She had heard a few sermons and several lectures on varioussubjects connected with Christ's religion. She had read many books bothfor and against Him. She had read the New Testament. But could she quitehonestly say that she had STUDIED the character of Christ? Had she notbeen predisposed to think her father in the right? He would not at allapprove of that. Had she been a true Freethinker? Had she not taken agood deal to be truth because he said it? If so, she was not a bit morefair than the majority of Christians who never took the trouble to gointo things for themselves, and study things from the point of view ofan outsider. 

In the silence and darkness of her little room, she began to suspect agood many unpleasant and hitherto unknown facts about herself. 

"After all, I do believe that Mr. Osmond was right, " she confessed atlength. "I am glad to get back my belief in him; but I've come to ahorrid bit of lath and plaster in myself where I thought it was all goodstone. " She fell asleep and dreamed of the heathen Chinee, reading thetranslation of the translation of her father's words, and disbelievingaltogether in "that invented demagogue, Luke Raeburn. "

The next day Charles Osmond, sitting at work in his study, and feelingmore depressed and hopeless than he would have cared to own even tohimself, was roused by the arrival of a little three-cornered note. Itwas as follow:

"Dear Mr. Osmond, You made me feel very angry yesterday, and sad, too, for of course it was a case of 'Et tu, Brute. ' But last night I cameto the unpleasant conclusion that you were quite right, and that I wasquite wrong. To prove to you that I am no longer angry, I am going toask you a great favor. Will you teach me Greek? Your parable of theheathen Chinee has set me thinking. Yours very sincerely, Erica Raeburn. "

Charles Osmond felt the tears come to his eyes. The straightforwardsimplicity of the letter, the candid avowal of having been "quitewrong, " an avowal not easy for one of Erica's character to make, touchedhim inexpressibly. Taking a Greek grammar from his book shelves, he setoff at once for Guilford Terrace. 

He found Erica looking very white and fragile, and with lines ofsuffering about her mouth; but, though physically weary, her mind seemedas vigorous as ever. She received him with her usual frankness, and withmore animation in her look than he had seen for some weeks. 

"I did think you perfectly horrid yesterday!" she exclaimed. "And wasmiserable, besides, at the prospect of losing one of my heroes. You canbe very severe. "

"The infliction of pain is only justified when the inflictor is certain, or as nearly certain as he can be, that the pain will be productive ofgood, " said Charles Osmond. 

"I suppose that is the way you account for the origin of evil, " saidErica, thoughtfully. 

"Yes, " replied Charles Osmond, pleased that she should have thought ofthe subject, "that to me seems the only possible explanation, otherwiseGod would be either not perfectly good or not omnipotent. His all-wisdomenables Him to overrule that pain which He has willed to be thenecessary outcome of infractions of His order. Pain, you see, is madeinto a means of helping us to find out where that order has been broken, and so teaching us to obey it in the long run. "

"But if there is an all-powerful God, wouldn't it have been much betterif He had made it impossible for us to go wrong?"

"It would have saved much trouble, undoubtedly; but do you think thatwhich costs us least trouble is generally the most worth having? Iknow a noble fellow who has fought his way upward through sins andtemptations you would like him, by the way, for he was once an atheist. He is, by virtue of all he has passed through, all he has overcome, oneof the fines men I have ever known. "

"That is the friend, I suppose, whom your son mentioned to me. But Idon't see your argument, for if there was an all-powerful God, He couldhave caused the man you speak of to be as noble and good without passingthrough pain and temptation. "

"But God does not work arbitrarily, but by laws of progression. Nor doesHis omnipotence include the working of contradictions. He cannot bothcause a thing to be and not to be at the same time. If it is a law thatthat which has grown by struggle and effort shall be most noble, Godwill not arbitrarily reverse that law or truth because the creation ofsinless beings would involve less trouble. "

"It all seems to me so unreal!" exclaimed Erica. "It seems like talkingof thin air!"

"I expect it does, " said Charles Osmond, trying to realize to himselfher position. 

There was a silence. 

"How did this man of whom you speak come to desert our side?" askedErica. "I suppose, as you say he was one of the finest men you everknew, he must, at least, have had a great intellect. How did he begin tothink all these unlikely, unreal things true?"

"Donovan began by seeing the grandeur of the character of Christ. Hefollowed his example for many years, calling himself all the time anatheist; at last he realized that in Christ we see the Father. "

"I am sorry we lost him if he is such a nice man, " was Erica's solecomment. Then, turning her beautiful eyes on Charles Osmond, she said, "I hope my note did not convey to you more than I intended. I asked youif you would teach me Greek, and I mean to try to study the character ofChrist; but, quite to speak the truth, I don't really want to do it. Ionly do it because I see I have not been fair. "

"You do it for the sake of being a truth-seeker, the best possiblereason. "

"I thought you would think I was going to do it because I hoped to getsomething. I thought one of your strong points was that people mustcome in a state of need and expecting to be satisfied. I don't expectanything. I am only doing it for the sake of honesty and thoroughness. Idon't expect any good at all. "

"Is it likely that you can expect when you know so little what is there?What can you bring better than an hones mind to the search? Erica, if Ihadn't known that you were absolutely sincere, I should not have daredto give you the pain I gave you yesterday. It was my trust in yourperfect sincerity which brought you that strong accusation. Even then itwas a sore piece of work. "

"Did you mind it a little, " exclaimed Erica. But directly she hadspoken, she felt that the question was absurd, for she saw a look inCharles Osmond's eyes that made the word "little" a mockery. 

"What makes that man so loving?" she thought to herself. "He reminded mealmost of father, yet I am no child of his. I am opposed to all that heteaches. I have spoken my mind out to him in a way which must sometimeshave pained him. Yet he cares for me so much that it pained himexceedingly to give me pain yesterday. "

His character puzzled her. The loving breath, the stern condemnation ofwhatever was not absolutely true, the disregard of what the worldsaid, the hatred of shams, and most puzzling of all, the often apparentstruggle with himself, the unceasing effort to conquer his chief fault. Yet this noble, honest, intellectual man was laboring under a greatdelusion, a delusion which somehow gave him an extraordinary power ofloving! Ah, no! It could not be his Christianity, though, which made himloving, for were not most Christians hard and bitter and narrow-minded?

"I wish, " she said, abruptly, "you would tell me what makes you willingto be friends with us. I know well enough that the 'Church Chronicle'has been punishing you for your defense of my father, and that theremust be a thousand disagreeables to encounter in your own set justbecause you visit us. Why do you come?"

"Because I care for you very much. "

"But you care, too, perhaps, for other people who will probably cut youfor flying in the face of society and visiting social outcasts. "

"I don't think I can explain it to you yet, " he replied. "You would onlytell me, as you told me once before, that I was talking riddles to you. When you have read your Greek Testament and really studied the life ofChrist, I think you will understand. In the meantime, St. Paul, I think, answers your question better than I could, but you wouldn't understandeven his words, I fancy. There they are in the Greek, " he opened aTestament and showed her a passage. "I believe you would think theEnglish almost as great gibberish as this looks to you in its unknowncharacters. "

"Do you advise every one to learn Greek?"

"No, many have neither time nor ability, and those who are not apt atlanguages would spend their time more usefully over good translations, Ithink. But you have time and brains, so I am very glad to teach you. "

"I am afraid I would much rather it were for any other purpose!" saidErica. "I am somehow weary of the very name of Christianity. I haveheard wrangling over the Bible till I am tired to death of it, and discussions about the Atonement and the Incarnation, and theResurrection, till the very words are hateful to me. I am afraid I shockyou, but just put yourself in my place and imagine how you would feel. It is not even as if I had to debate the various questions; I havemerely to sit and listen to a never-ending dispute. "

"You sadden me; but it is quite natural that you should be weary of suchdebates. I want you to realize, though, that in the stormy atmosphere ofyour father's lecture hall, in the din and strife of controversy, itis impossible that you should gain any true idea of Christ's realcharacter. Put aside all thought of the dogmas you have been weariedwith, and study the life of the Man. "

Then the lesson began. It proved a treat to both teacher and pupil. WhenCharles Osmond had left, Erica still worked on. 

"I should like, at any rate, to spell out his riddle, " she thought toherself, turning back to the passage he had shown her. And letter byletter, and word by word, she made out "For the love of Christ--"

The verb baffled her, however, and she lay on the sofa, chafing at herhelplessness till, at length, Tom happened to come in, and brought herthe English Testament she needed. Ah! There it was! "For the love ofChrist constraineth us. "

Was THAT what had made him come? Why, that was the alleged reason forhalf the persecutions they met with! Did the love of Christ constrainCharles Osmond to be their friend, and at the same time constrain theclergy of X______ not many years before to incite the people to stoneher father, and offer him every sort of insult? Was it possible that thelove of Christ constrained Mr. Osmond to endure contempt and censure ontheir behalf, and constrained Mr. Randolph to hire a band of roughs tointerrupt her father's speeches?

"He is a grand exception to the general rule, " she said to herself. "Ifthere were many Christians like him, I should begin to think there mustbe something more in Christianity than we thought. Well, if only toplease him I must try to study the New Testament over again, and asthoroughly as I can. No, not to please him, though, but for the sake ofbeing quite honest. I would much rather be working at that new book ofTyndall's. "

CHAPTER XV. An Interval

 How can man love but what he yearns to help? R. Browning

During the year of Erica's illness, Brian began to realize his trueposition toward her better than he had hitherto done. 

He saw quite well that any intrusion of his love, even any slightmanifestation of it, might do untold harm. She was not ready for it yetwhy, he could not have told. 

The truth was, that his Undine, although in many respects a high-souledwoman, was still in some respects a child. She would have been merelyembarrassed by his love; she did not want it. She liked him very much asan acquaintance; he was to her Tom's friend, or her doctor, or perhapsMr. Osmond's son. In this way she liked him, was even fond of him, butas a lover he would have been a perplexing embarrassment. 

He knew well enough that her frank liking boded ill for his futuresuccess; but in spite of that he could not help being glad to obtain anyfooting with her. It was something even to be "Tom's friend Brian. " Hedelighted in hearing his name from her lips, although knowing that itwas no good augury. He lived on from day to day, thinking very littleof the doubtful future as long as he could serve her in the present. A reserved and silent man, devoted to his profession, and to practicalscience of every kind, few people guessed that he could have anyparticular story of his own. He was not at all the sort of man who wouldbe expected to fall hopelessly in love at first sight, nor would any onehave selected him as a good modern specimen of the chivalrous knightof olden times; he was so completely a nineteenth-century man, soprogressive, so scientific. But, though his devotion was of the silentorder, it was, perhaps for that reason, all the truer. There was abouthim a sort of divine patience. As long as he could serve Erica, he wascontent to wait any number of years in the hope of winning her love. Heaccepted his position readily. He knew that she had not the slightestlove for him. He was quite secondary to his father, even, who was oneof Erica's heroes. He liked to make her talk of him; her enthusiasticliking was delightful perhaps all the more so because she was far fromagreeing with her prophet. Brian, with the wonderful self-forgetfulnessof true love, liked to hear the praises of all those whom she admired;he liked to realize what were her ideals, even when conscious how far hefell short of them. 

For it was unfortunately true that his was not the type of character shewas most likely to admire. As a friend she might like him much, but hecould hardly be her hero. His wonderful patience was quite lost uponher; she hardly counted patience as a virtue at all. His grand humilitymerely perplexed her; it was at present far beyond her comprehension. While his willingness to serve every one, even in the most trifling andpetty concerns of daily life, she often attributed to mere good nature. Grand acts of self-sacrifice she admired enthusiastically, but the morereally difficult round of small denials and trifling services she didnot in the least appreciate. Absorbed in the contemplation, as it were, of the Hamlets in life, she had no leisure to spare for the Horatios. 

She proved a capital patient; her whole mind was set on getting well, and her steady common sense and obedience to rules made her a greatfavorite with her elder doctor. Really healthy, and only invalided bythe hard work and trouble she had undergone, seven or eight months' restdid wonders for her. In the enforced quiet, too, she found plentyof time for study. Charles Osmond had never had a better pupil. Theylearned to know each other very well during those lessons, and manywere the perplexing questions which Erica started. But they were not asbefore, a mere repetition of the difficulties she had been primed withat her father's lecture hall, nor did she bring them forward with thetriumphant conviction that they were unanswerable. They were real, honest questions, desiring and seeking everywhere for the true answerwhich might be somewhere. 

The result of her study of the life of Christ was at first to make her amuch better secularist. She found to her surprise that there was much inHis teaching that entirely harmonized with secularism; that, in fact, Hespoke a great deal about the improvement of this world, and scarcely atall about that place in the clouds of which Christians made so much. By the end of a year she had also reached the conviction that, whateverinterpolations there might be in the gospels, no untrue writer, noadmiring but dishonest narrator COULD have conceived such a character asthat of Christ. For she had dug down to the very root of the matter. Shehad left for the present the, to her, perplexing and almost irritatingcatalogue of miracles, and had begun to perceive the strength andindomitable courage, the grand self-devotion, the all-embracing love ofthe man. Very superficial had been her former view. He had been to hera shadowy, unreal being, soft and gentle, even a little effeminate, speaking sometimes what seemed to her narrow words about only saving thelost sheep of the house of Israel. A character somehow wanting in thatPower and Intellect which she worshipped. 

But on a really deep study she saw how greatly she had been mistaken. Extraordinarily mistaken, both as to the character and the teaching. Christ was without doubt a grand ideal! To be as broad-hearted as hewas, as universally loving it would be no bad aim. And, as in daily lifeErica realized how hard was the practice of that love, she realized atthe same time the loftiness of the ideal, and the weakness of her ownpowers. 

"But, though I do begin to see why you take this man as your ideal, " shesaid, one day, to Charles Osmond, "I can not, of course, accept a greatdeal that He is said to have taught. When He speaks of love to men, thatis understandable, one can try to obey; but when he speaks about God, then, of course, I can only think that He was deluded. You may admireJoan of Arc, and see the great beauty of her character, yet at the sametime believe that she was acting under a delusion; you may admire thecharacter of Gotama without considering Buddhism the true religion;and so with Christ, I may reverence and admire His character, whilebelieving Him to have been mistaken. "

Charles Osmond smiled. He knew from many trifling signs, unnoticed byothers, that Erica would have given a great deal to see her way to anhonest acceptance of that teaching of Christ which spoke of an unseenbut everywhere present Father of all, of the everlastingness of love, of a reunion with those who are dead. She hardly allowed to herselfthat she longed to believe it, she dreaded the least concession to thatnatural craving; she distrusted her own truthfulness, feared above allthings that she might be deluded, might imagine that to be true whichwas in reality false. 

And happily, her prophet was too wise to attempt in any way to quickenthe work which was going on within her; he was one of those rare menwho can be, even in such a case, content to wait. He would as soon havethought of digging up a seed to see whether he could not quicken itsslow development of root and stem as of interfering in any way withErica. He came and went, taught her Greek, and always, day after day, week after week, month after month, however much pressed by his parishwork, however harassed by private troubles, he came to her with thegenial sympathy, the broad-hearted readiness to hear calmly all sides ofthe question, which had struck her so much the very first time she hadmet him. 

The other members of the family liked him almost as well, although theydid not know him so intimately as Erica. Aunt Jean, who had at firstbeen a little prejudiced against him, ended by singing his praises moreloudly than any one, perhaps conquered in spite of herself by the man'sextraordinary power of sympathy, his ready perception of good even inthose with whom he disagreed most. 

Mrs. Craigie was in many respects very like her brother, and was a veryuseful worker, though much of her work was little seen. She did notspeak in public; all the oratorical powers of the family seemed tohave concentrated themselves in Luke Raeburn; but she wrote and workedindefatigably, proving a very useful second to her brother. A hard, wearing life, however, had told a good deal upon her, and trouble hadsomewhat imbittered her nature. She had not the vein of humor which hadstood Raeburn in such good stead. Severely mater-of-fact, and almostdespising those who had any poetry in their nature, she did not alwaysagree very well with Erica. The two loved each other sincerely, and werefar too loyal both to clan and creed to allow their differences reallyto separate them; but there was, undoubtedly, something in theirnatures which jarred. Even Tom found it hard at times to bear the stronginfusion of bitter criticism which his mother introduced into the homeatmosphere. He was something of a philosopher, however, and knowing thatshe had been through great trouble, and had had much to try her, he madeup his mind that it was natural therefore inevitable therefore to beborne. 

The home life was not without its frets and petty trials, but on onepoint there was perfect accord. All were devoted to the head of thehouse would have sacrificed anything to bring him a few minutes' peace. 

As for Raeburn, when not occupied in actual conflict, he lived in asort of serene atmosphere of thought and study, far removed from allthe small differences and little cares of his household. They invariablysmoothed down all such roughnesses in his presence, and probably inany case he would have been unable to see such microscopic grievances;unless, indeed, they left any shade of annoyance on Erica's face, andthen his fatherhood detected at once what was wrong. 

It would be tedious, however, to follow the course of Erica's life forthe next three years, for, though the time was that of her chief mentalgrowth, her days were of the quietest. Not till she was two-and-twentydid she fully recover from the effects of her sudden sorrow and thesubsequent overwork. In the meantime, her father's influence steadilydeepened and spread throughout the country, and troubles multiplied. 

CHAPTER XVI. Hyde Park

 Who spouts his message to the wilderness, Lightens his soul and feels one burden less; But to the people preach, and you will find They'll pay you back with thanks ill to your mind. Goethe. Translated by J. S. B. 

Hyde Park is a truly national property, and it is amusing and perhapsedifying to note the various uses to which it is often put. In themorning it is the rendezvous of nurses and children; in the afternoonof a fashionable throng; on Sunday evenings it is the resort ofhard-working men and women, who have to content themselves with gettinga breath of fresh air once a week. But, above all, the park is themeeting place of the people, the place for mass meetings and monsterdemonstrations. 

On a bright day in June, when the trees were still in their freshestgreen, the crowd of wealth and fashion had beaten an ignominious retreatbefore a great political demonstration to be held that afternoon. 

Every one knew that the meeting would be a very stormy one, for itrelated to the most burning question of the day, a question which washourly growing more and more momentous, and which for the time haddivided England into two bitterly opposed factions. 

These years which Erica had passed so quietly had been eventful yearsfor the country, years of strife and bloodshed, years of recklessexpenditure, years which deluded some and enraged others, provoking mostbitter animosity between the opposing parties. The question was not aclass question, and a certain number of the working classes and a largenumber of the London roughs warmly espoused the cause of that partywhich appealed to their love of power and to a selfish patriotism. TheHyde Park meeting would inevitably be a turbulent one. Those who wishedto run no risk remained at home; Rotten Row was deserted; the carriageroad almost empty; while from the gateways there poured in a neverending stream of people some serious-looking, some eager and excited, some with a dangerously vindictive look, some merely curious. Every nowand then the more motley and disorderly crowd was reinforced by a clubwith its brass band and banners, and gradually the mass of human beingsgrew from hundreds to a thousand, from one thousand to many thousands, until, indeed, it became almost impossible to form any idea of theactual numbers, so enormous was the gathering. 

"We shall have a bad time of it today, " remarked Raeburn to Brian, asthey forced their way on. "If I'm not very much mistaken, too, we arevastly outnumbered. "

He looked round the huge assembly from his vantage ground of six footfour, his cool intrepidity not one whit shaken by the knowledge that, by what he was about to say, he should draw down on his own head all thewrath of the roughest portion of the crowd. 

"'Twill be against fearful odds!" said Tom, elbowing vigorously to keepup with his companion. 

"We fear nae foe!" said Raeburn, quoting his favorite motto. "And, after all, it were no bad end to die protesting against wicked rapacity, needless bloodshed. "

His eye kindled as he thought of the protest he hoped to make; his heartbeat high as he looked round upon the throng so largely composed ofthose hostile to himself. Was there not a demand for his superabundantenergy? A demand for the tremendous powers of endurance, of influence, of devotion which were stored up within him? As an athlete joys intrying a difficult feat, as an artist joys in attempting a loftysubject, so Raeburn in his consciousness of power, in his absoluteconviction of truth, joyed in the prospect of a most dangerous conflict. 

Brian, watching him presently from a little distance, could not wonderat the immense influence he had gained in the country. The mere physiqueof the man was wonderfully impressive the strong, rugged Scottish face, the latent power conveyed in his whole bearing. He was no demagogue, henever flattered the people; he preached indeed a somewhat severe creed, but, even in his sternest mood, the hold he got over the people, the power he had of raising the most degraded to a higher level wasmarvelous. It was not likely, however, that his protest of today wouldlead to anything but a free fight. If he could make himself effectuallyheard, he cared very little for what followed. It was necessary that aprotest should be made, and he was the right man to make it; thereforecome ill or well, he would go through with it, and, if he escaped withhis life so much the better!

The meeting began. A moderate speaker was heard without interruption, but the instant Raeburn stood up, a chorus of yells arose. For severalminutes he made no attempt to speak; but his dignity seemed to grow inproportion with the indignities offered him. He stood there toweringabove the crowd like a rock of strength, scanning the thousands of faceswith the steady gaze of one who, in thinking of the progress of therace, had lost all consciousness of his own personality. He had comethere to protest against injustice, to use his vast strength for others, to spend and be spent for millions, to die if need be! Raeburn was madeof the stuff of which martyrs are made; standing there face to face withan angry crowd, which might at any moment break loose and trample him todeath or tear him to pieces, his heart was nevertheless all aglow withthe righteousness of his cause, with the burning desire to make anavailing protest against an evil which was desolating thousands ofhomes. 

The majesty of his calmness began to influence the mob; the hisses andgroans died away into silence, such comparative silence, that is, aswas compatible with the greatness of the assembly. Then Raeburn bracedhimself up; dignified before, he now seemed even more erect and stately. The knowledge that for the moment he had that huge crowd entirelyunder control was stimulating in the highest degree. In a minutehis stentorian voice was ringing out fearlessly into the vast arena;thousands of hearts were vibrating to his impassioned appeal. To eachone it seemed as if he individually were addressed. 

"You who call yourselves Englishmen, I come to appeal to you today! You, who call yourselves freemen, I come to tell you that you are acting likeslaves. "

Then with rare tact, he alluded to the strongest points of the Britishcharacter, touching with consummate skill the vulnerable parts of hisaudience. He took for granted that their aims were pure, their standardlofty, and by the very supposition raised for a time the most abject ofhis hearers, inspired them with his own enthusiasm. 

Presently, when he felt secure enough to venture it, when the crowd washanging on his words with breathless attention, he appealed no longerdirectly to the people, but drew, in graphic language, the pictureof the desolations brought by war. The simplicity of his phrases, hisentire absence of showiness or bombast, made his influence indescribablydeep and powerful. A mere ranter, a frothy mob orator, would have beensilenced long before. 

But this man had somehow got hold of the great assembly, had conqueredthem by sheer force of will; in a battle of one will against thousandsthe one had conquered, and would hold its own till it had administeredthe hard home-thrust which would make the thousands wince and retaliate. 

Now, under the power of that "sledge-hammer Saxon, " that marvelouslygraphic picture of misery and bereavement, hard-headed, and hithertohard hearted men were crying like children. Then came the ruggedunvarnished statement shouted forth in the speaker's sternest voice. 

"All this is being done in your name, men of England! Not only in yourname, but at your cost! You are responsible for this bloodshed, thismisery! How long is it to go on? How long are you free men going toallow yourselves to be bloody executioners? How long are you to beslavish followers of that grasping ambition which veils its foulnessunder the fair name of patriotism?"

Loud murmurs began to arise at this, and the orator knew that the groundswell betokened the coming storm. He proceeded with tenfold energy, hiswords came down like hailstones, with a fiery indignation he deliveredhis mighty philippic, in a torrent of forceful words he launched out themost tremendous denunciation he had ever uttered. 

The string had been gradually worked up to its highest possibletension; at length when the strain was the greatest it suddenly snapped. Raeburn's will had held all those thousands in check; he had kept hisbitterest enemies hanging on his words; he had lashed them into fury, and still kept his grip over them; he had worked them up, gaining moreand more power over them, till at length, as he shouted forth the lastwords of a grand peroration, the bitterness and truth of his accusationsproved keener than his restraining influence. 

He had foreseen that the spell would break, and he knew the instantit was broken. A moment before, and he had been able to sway that hugecrowd as he pleased; now he was at their mercy. No will power, no forceof language, no strength of earnestness or truth would avail him now. All that he had to trust to was his immense physical strength, and whatwas that when measured against thousands?

He saw the dangerous surging movement in the sea of heads, and knew onlytoo well what it betokened. With a frightful yell of mingled hatredand execration, the seething human mass bore down upon him! His ownfollowers and friends did what they could for him, but that was verylittle. His case was desperate. Desperation, however, inspires somepeople with an almost superhuman energy. Life was sweet, and that day hefought for his life. The very shouting and hooting of the mob, the roarof the angry multitude, which might well have filled even a brave manwith panic, stimulated him, strengthened him to resist to the uttermost. 

He fought like a lion, forcing his way through the furious crowd, attacked in the most brutal way on every side, yet ever struggling onif only by inches. Never once did his steadfastness waver, never fora single instant did his spirit sink. His unfailing presence of mindenabled him to get through what would have been impossible to mostmen, his great height and strength stood him in good stead, while themeanness and the injustice of the attack, the immense odds against whichhe was fighting nerved him for the struggle. 

It was more like a hideous nightmare than a piece of actual life, thosefierce tiger faces swarming around, that roar of vindictive anger, thatfrightful crushing, that hail storm of savage blows! But, whether lifeor nightmare, it must be gone through with. In the thick of the fight aline of Goethe came to his mind, one of his favorite mottoes; "Make goodthy standing place and move the world. "

And even then he half smiled to himself at the forlornness of the hopethat he should ever need a standing place again. 

With renewed vigor he fought his way on, and with a sort of glowof triumph and new-born hope had almost seen his way to a place ofcomparative safety, when a fearful blow hopelessly maimed him. With avain struggle to save himself he fell to the earth a vision of fiercefaces, green leaves, and blue sky flashed before his eyes, an inwardvision of Erica, a moment's agony, and then the surging crowd closedover him, and he knew no more. 

CHAPTER XVII. At Death's Door

 Sorrow and wrong are pangs of a new birth; All we who suffer bleed for one another; No life may live alone, but all in all; We lie within the tomb of our dead selves, Waiting till One command us to arise. Hon. Boden Noel. 

Knowing that Erica would have a very anxious afternoon, Charles Osmondgave up his brief midday rest, snatched a hasty lunch at a third-raterestaurant, finished his parish visits sooner than usual, and reachedthe little house in Guilford Terrace in time to share the worst part ofher waiting. He found her hard at work as usual, her table strewn withpapers and books of reference. Raeburn had purposely left her some workto do for him which he knew would fully occupy her; but the mere factthat she knew he had done it on purpose to engross her mind with othermatters entirely prevented her from giving it her full attention. Shehad never felt more thankful to see Charles Osmond than at that moment. 

"When your whole heart and mind are in Hyde Park, how are you to dragthem back to what some vindictive old early Father said about theeternity of punishment?" she exclaimed, with a smile, which very thinlydisguised her consuming anxiety. 

They sat down near the open window, Erica taking possession of thatside which commanded the view of the entrance of the cul-de-sac. CharlesOsmond did not speak for a minute or two, but sat watching her, tryingto realize to himself what such anxiety as hers must be. She wasevidently determined to keep outwardly calm, not to let her fears gainundue power over her; but she could not conceal the nervous tremblingwhich beset her at every sound of wheels in the quiet square, nordid she know that in her brave eyes there lurked the most visiblemanifestation possible of haggard, anxious waiting. She sat with herwatch in her hand, the little watch that Eric Haeberlein had givenher when she was almost a child, and which, even in the days of theirgreatest poverty, her father had never allowed her to part with. Whatstrange hours it had often measured for her. Age-long hours of grief, weary days of illness and pain, times of eager expectation, times ofsickening anxiety, times of mental conflict, of baffling questions andperplexities. How the hands seemed to creep on this afternoon, at timesalmost to stand still. 

"Now, I suppose if you were in my case you would pray, " said Erica, raising her eyes to Charles Osmond. "It must be a relief, but yet, whenyou come to analyze it, it is most illogical a fearful waste of time. Ifthere is a God who works by fixed laws, and who sees the whole maze ofevery one's life before hand, then the particular time and manner of myfather's death must be already appointed, and no prayer of mine thathe may come safely through this afternoon's danger can be of the leastavail. Besides, if a God could be turned round from His original purposeby human wills and much speaking, I hardly think He would be worthbelieving in. "

"You are taking the lowest view of prayer mere petition; but eventhat, I think, is set on its right footing as soon as we grasp the trueconception of the ideal father. Do you mean to say that, because yourfather's rules were unwavering and his day's work marked out beforehand, he did not like you to come to him when you were a little child, with all your wishes and longings and requests, even though they weresometimes childish and often impossible to gratify? Would he have beenbetter pleased if you had shut up everything in your own heart, andnever of your own accord told him anything about your babyish plans andwants?"

"Still, prayer seems to me a waste of time, " said Erica. 

"What! If it brings you a talk with your Father? If it is a relief toyou and a pleasure because a sign of trust and love to Him? But in oneway I entirely agree with you, unless it is spontaneous it is not onlyuseless but harmful. Imagine a child forced to talk to its father. Andthis seems to me the truest defense of prayer; to the 'natural man'it always will seem foolishness, to the 'spiritual man' to one who hasrecognized the All-Father it is the absolute necessity of life. AndI think by degrees one passes from eager petition for personal andphysical good things into the truer and more Christlike spirit ofprayer. 'These are my fears, these are my wishes, but not my will butThine be done. ' Shakespeare had got hold of a grand truth, it seems tome, when he said:

"'So find we profit by losing of our prayers. '"

"And yet your ideal man distinctly said: 'Ask and ye shall receive'"said Erica. "There are no limitations. For aught we know, somepig-headed fanatic may be at this moment praying that God in His mercywould rid the earth of that most dangerous man, Luke Raeburn; whileI might be of course I am not, but it is conceivable that I might bepraying for his safety. Both of us might claim the same promise, 'Askand ye shall receive. '"

"You forget one thing, " said Charles Osmond. "You would both pray to theFather, and His answer which you, by the way, might consider no answerwould be the answer of a father. Do you not think the fanaticwould certainly find profit in having his most unbrotherly requestdisregarded? And the true loss or gain of prayer would surely be inthis: The fanatic would, by his un-Christlike request, put himselffurther from God; you, by your spontaneous and natural avowal of needand recognition of a Supreme loving will, would draw nearer to God. Nor do we yet at all understand the extraordinary influence exerted onothers by any steady, earnest concentration of thought; science is butjust awakening to the fact that there is an unknown power which we havehitherto never dreamed of. I have great hope that in this direction, asin all others, science may show us the hidden workings of our Father. "

Erica forgot her anxiety for a moment; she was watching Charles Osmond'sface with mingled curiosity and perplexity. To speak to one whose beliefin the Unseen seemed stronger and more influential than most people'sbelief in the seen, was always very strange to her, and with her prophetshe was almost always conscious of this double life (SHE considered itdouble a real outer and an imaginary inner. ) His strong conviction; theevery-day language which he used in speaking of those truths whichmost people from a mistaken notion of reverence, wrap up in a sort ofecclesiastical phraseology; above all, the carrying out in his life ofthe idea of universal brotherhood, with so many a mere form of words allserved to impress Erica very deeply. She knew him too well and loved himtoo truly to pause often, as it were, to analyze his character. Everynow and then, however, some new phase was borne in upon her, and somechance word, emphasizing the difference between them, forced her fromsheer honesty to own how much that was noble seemed in him to be theoutcome of faith in Christ. 

They went a little more deeply into the prayer question. Then, with thewonder growing on her more and more, Erica suddenly exclaimed: "It isso wonderful to me that you can believe without logical proof believe athing which affects your whole life so immensely, and yet be unable todemonstrate the very existence of a God. "

"Do you believe your father loves you?" asked Charles Osmond. 

"My father! Why, of course. "

"You can't logically prove that his love has any true existence. "

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Erica. "Not a day passes without some word, look, thought, which would prove it to any one. If there is one thing that Iam certain of in the whole world, it is that my father loves me. Why, you who know him so well, you must know that! You must have seen that. "

"All his care of you may be mere self-interest, " said Charles Osmond. "Perhaps he puts on a sort of appearance of affection for you justfor the sake of what people would say not a very likely thing for Mr. Raeburn to consider, I own. Still, you can't demonstrate to me that hislove is a reality. "

"But I KNOW it is!" cried Erica, vehemently. 

"Of course you know, my child; you know in your heart, and our heartscan teach us what no power of intellect, no skill in logic can everyteach us. You can't logically prove the existence of your father's love, and I can't logically prove the existence of the all-Father; but inour hearts we both of us know. The deepest, most sacred realities aregenerally those of heart-knowledge, and quite out of the pale of logic. "

Erica did not speak, but sat musing. After all, what COULD be provedwith absolute certainty? Why, nothing, except such bare facts asthat two and two make four. Was even mathematical proof so absolutelycertain? Were they not already beginning to talk of a possible fourthdimension of space when even that might no longer be capable ofdemonstration. 

"Well, setting aside actual proof, " she resumed, after a silence, "howdo you bring it down even to a probability that God is?"

"We must all of us start with a supposition, " said Charles Osmond. "There must on the one hand either be everlasting matter or everlastingforce, whether these be two real existences, or whether matter be onlyforce conditioned, or, on the other hand, you have the alternativeof the everlasting 'He. ' You at present base your belief on the firstalternative. I base mine on the last, which, I grant you, is at theoutset the most difficult of the two. I find, however, that ninetimes out of ten the most difficult theory is the truest. Granting theeverlasting 'He, ' you must allow self-consciousness, without which therecould be no all powerful, all knowledge-full, and all love-full. We willnot quarrel about names; call the Everlasting what you please. 'Father'seems to me at once the highest and simplest name. "

"But evil!" broke in Erica, triumphantly. "If He originates all, he mustoriginate evil as well as good. "

"Certainly, " said Charles Osmond, "He has expressly told us so. 'I formthe light and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil; I, theLord, do all these things. '"

"I recollect now, we spoke of this two or three years ago, " saidErica. "You said that the highest good was attained by passing throughstruggles and temptations. "

"Think of it in this way, " said Charles Osmond. "The Father is educatingHis children; what education was ever brought about without pain? Thewise human father does not so much shield his child from small pains, but encourages him to get wisdom from them for the future, tries toteach him endurance and courage. Pain is necessary as an element ineducation, possibly there is no evolution possible without it. Thefather may regret it, but, if he is wise, knows that it must be. Hesuffers twice as much as the child from the infliction of the pain. TheAll-Father, being at once all-knowing and all-loving, can see the endof the education while we only see it in process, and perhaps exclaim:'What a frightful state of things, ' or like your favorite 'StephenBlackpool, ' 'It's all a muddle. '"

"And the end you consider to be perfection, and eternal union with God. How can you think immortality probable?"

"It is the necessary outcome of belief in such a God, such a Father aswe have spoken of. What! Could God have willed that His children whom Hereally loves should, after a time, fade utterly away? If so, He would beless loving than an average earthly father. If He did indeed love them, and would fain have had them ever with Him, but could not, then He wouldnot be all-powerful. "

"I see you a universalist, a great contrast to my Early Father here, who gloats over the delightful prospect of watching from his comfortableheaven the tortures of all unbelievers. But, tell me, what do youthink would be our position in your unseen world? I suppose the mererealization of having given one's life in a mistaken cause would beabout the most terrible pain conceivable?"

"I think, " said Charles Osmond, with one of his grave, quiet smiles, "that death will indeed be your 'gate of life, ' that seeing the lightyou will come to your true self, and exclaim, 'Who'd have thought it?'"

The every day language sounded quaint, it made Erica smile; but CharlesOsmond continued, with a brightness in his eyes which she was far fromunderstanding: "And you know there are to be those who shall say: 'Lordwhen saw we Thee in distress and helped Thee?' They had not recognizedHim here, but He recognized them there? They shared in the 'Come yeblessed of my Father. '"

"Well, " said Erica, thoughtfully, "if any Christianity be true, it mustbe your loving belief, not the blood-thirsty scheme of the Calvinists. If THAT could by any possibility be true, I should greatly prefer, likeKingsley's dear old 'Wulf, ' to share hell with my own people. "

The words had scarcely left her lips when, with a startled cry, shesprung to her feet and hurried to the door. The next moment CharlesOsmond saw Tom pass the window; he was unmistakably the bearer of badnews. 

His first panting words were reassuring "Brian says you are not to befrightened;" but they were evidently the mere repetition of a message. Tom himself was almost hopeless; his wrath and grief become moreapparent every minute as he gave an incoherent account of theafternoon's work. 

The brutes, the fiends, had half killed the chieftain, had set on himlike so many tigers. Brian and Hazeldine were bringing him home had senthim on to prepare. 

Erica had listened so far with a colorless face, and hands tightlyclasped, but the word "prepare" seemed to bring new life to her. In aninstant she was her strongest self. 

"They will never try to take him up that steep narrow staircase. Quick, Tom! Help me to move this couch into the study. "

The little Irish servant was pressed into the service, too, and sentupstairs to fetch and carry, and in a very few minutes the preparationswere complete, and Erica had at hand all the appliances most likely tobe needed. Just as all was done, and she was beginning to feel that aminute's pause would be the "last straw, " Tom heard the sound of wheelsin the square, and hurried out. Erica stood in the doorway watching, andpresently saw a small crowd of helpers bearing a deathly looking burden. Whiteness of death redness of blood. The ground seemed rocking beneathher feet, when a strong hand took hers and drew her into the house. 

"Don't be afraid, " said a voice, which she knew to be Brian's though ablack mist would not let her see him. "He was conscious a minute ago;this is only from the pain of moving. Which room?"

"The study, " she replied, recovering herself. "Give me something to do, Brian, quickly. "

He saw that in doing lay her safety, and kept her fully employed, somuch so, indeed, that from sheer lack of time she was able to stave offthe faintness which had threatened to overpower her. After a time herfather came to himself, and Erica's face, which had been the last in hismind in full consciousness, was the first which now presented itself tohis awakening gaze. He smiled. 

"Well, Erica! So, after all, they haven't quite done for me. Nine liveslike a cat, as I always told you. "

His voice was faint, but with all his wonted energy he raised himselfbefore they could remonstrate. He was far more injured, however, than heknew; with a stifled groan he fell back once more in a swoon, and it wasmany hours before they were able to restore him. 

After that, fever set in, and a shadow as of death fell on the housein Guilford Terrace. Doctors came and went; Brian almost lived withhis patient; friends Raeburn had hosts of them came with help of everydescription. The gloomy little alley admitted every day crowds ofinquirers, who came to the door, read the bulletin, glanced up at thewindows, and went away looking graver than when they came. 

Erica lost count of time altogether. The past seemed blotted out; theweight of the present was so great that she would not admit any thoughtof the future, though conscious always of a blank dread which shedared not pause to analyze, sufficient indeed for her day was the evilthereof. She struggled on somehow with a sort of despairing strength;only once or twice did she even recollect the outside world. 

It happened that on the first Wednesday after the Hyde Park meetingsome one mentioned the day of the week in her hearing. She was in thesick-room at the time, but at once remembered that her week's work wasuntouched, that she had not written a line for the "Idol-Breaker. " Everyidea seemed to have gone out of her head; for a minute she felt that tosave her life she could not write a line. But still she conscientiouslystruggled to remember what subject had been allotted her, and in thetemporary stillness of the first night-watch drew writing materialstoward her, and leaned her head on her hands until, almost by an effortof will, she at length recalled the theme for her article. 

Of course! It was to be that disgraceful disturbance in the church atZ______. She remembered the whole affair now, it all rose up before hergraphically not a bad subject at all! Their party might make a good dealby it. Her article must be bright, descriptive, sarcastic. Yet howwas she to write such an article when her heart felt like lead? Aninvoluntary "I can't" rose to her lips, and she glanced at her father'smotionless form, her eyes filling with tears. Then one of his sayingscame to her mind: "No such word as 'Can't' in the dictionary, " and beganto write rapidly almost defiantly. No sooner had she begun than her veryexhaustion, the lateness of the hour, and the stress of circumstancecame to her aid she had never before written so brilliantly. 

The humor of the scene struck her; little flashes of mirth at theexpense of both priest and people, delicate sarcasms, the more searchingfrom their very refinement, awoke in her brain and were swiftlytranscribed. In the middle of one of the most daring sentences Raeburnstirred. Erica's pen was thrown down at once; she was at his sideabsorbed once more in attending to his wants, forgetful quite ofreligious controversy, of the "Idol-Breaker, " of anything in fact in thewhole world but her father. Not till an hour had passed was she free tofinish her writing, but by the time her aunt came to relieve guard attwo o'clock the article was finished and Erica stole noiselessly intothe next room to put it up. 

To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed. He was stilltoiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; she could almosthave smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief and sleepiness on hisface, had not her own heart been so loaded with care and sadness. Thepost brought in what Tom described as "bushels" of letters every day, and he was working away at them now with sleepy heroism. 

"How tired you look, " said Erica. "See! I have brought in this for the'Idol. '"

"You've been writing it now! That is good of you. I was afraid we shouldhave to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's. "

He took the sheets from her and began to read. Laughter is often onlyone remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sad-hearted enough, couldnot keep his countenance through Erica's article. First his shouldersbegan to shake, then he burst into such a paroxysm of noiseless laughterthat Erica, fearing that he could not restrain himself, and would beheard in the sick-room, pulled the towel from his forehead over hismouth; then, conquered herself by the absurdity of his appearance, shewas obliged to bury her own face in her hands, laughing more and morewhenever the incongruousness of the laughter occurred to her. When theyhad exhausted themselves the profound depression which had been the realcause of the violent reaction returned with double force. Tom sighedheavily and finished reading the article with the gravest of faces. Hewas astonished that Erica could have written at such a time an articlepositively scintillating with mirth. 

"How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights?" he asked. 

"Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello, " said Erica. "Henever laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his love died and hisown heart was broken. "

There was a look in her eyes which made Tom reply, quickly: "Don't writeany more just now; the professor has promised us something for nextweek. Don't write any more till till the chieftain is well. "

After that she wished him good night rather hastily, crept upstairs toher attic, and threw herself down on her bed. Why had he spoken of thefuture? Why had his voice hesitated? No, she would not think, she wouldnot. 

So the article appeared in that week's "Idol-Breaker", and thousands andthousands of people laughed over it. It even excited displeased commentfrom "the other side, " and in many ways did a great deal of what inGuilford Terrace was considered "good work. " For Erica herself, it waslong before she had time to give it another thought; it was to her onlya desperately hard duty which she had succeeded in doing. Nobody everyguessed how much it had cost her. 

The weary time dragged on, days and weeks passed by; Raeburn was growingweaker, but clung to life with extraordinary tenacity. And now verybitterly they felt the evils of this voluntarily embraced poverty, forthe summer heat was for a few days almost tropical, and the tiny littlerooms in the lodging-house were stifling. Brian was very anxious tohave the patient moved across to his father's house; but, though CharlesOsmond said all he could in favor of the scheme, the other doctors wouldnot consent, thinking the risk of removal too great. And, besides, it would be useless, they maintained the atheist was evidently dying. Brian, who was the youngest, could not carry out his wishes in defianceof the others, but he would not deny himself the hope of even yet savingErica's father. He devised punkahs, became almost nurse and doctor inone, and utterly refused to lose heart. Erica herself was the only otherperson who shared his hopefulness, or perhaps her feeling couldhardly be described by that word; she was not hopeful, but she hadso resolutely set herself to live in the present that she had managedaltogether to crowd out the future, and with it the worst fear. 

One day, however, it broke upon her suddenly. Some one had left anewspaper in the sick-room; it was weeks since she had seen one, and ina brief interval, while her father slept, or seemed to sleep, she tookit up half mechanically. How much it would have interested her a littlewhile ago, how meaningless it all seemed to her now. "Latest Telegrams, ""News from the Seat of War, " "Parliamentary Intelligence" a speech bySir Michael Cunningham, one of her heroes, on a question in which shewas interested. She could not read it, all the life seemed gone out ofit, today the paper was nothing to her but a broad sheet with so manycolumns of printed matter. But as she was putting it down their own namecaught her eye. All at once her benumbed faculties regained their power, her heart began to beat wildly, for there, in clearest print, in short, choppy, unequivocal sentences, was the hideous fear which she hadcontrived so long to banish. 

"Mr. Raeburn is dying. The bulletins have daily been growing less andless hopeful. Yesterday doctor R______, who had been called in, couldonly confirm the unfavorable opinion of the other doctors. In allprobability the days of the great apostle of atheism are numbered. Itrests with the Hyde Park rioters, and those who by word and example haveincited them, to bear the responsibility of making a martyr of such aman as Mr. Luke Raeburn. Emphatically disclaiming the slightest sympathywith Mr. Raeburn's religious views, we yet--"

But Erica could read no more. Whatever modicum of charity the writerventured to put forth was lost upon her. The opening sentence dancedbefore her eyes in letters of fire. That morning she met Brian in thepassage and drew him into the sitting room. He saw at once how it waswith her. 

"Look, " she said, holding the newspaper toward him, "is that true? Or isit only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?"

Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, her eyesonly looked grave and questioning. She watched his face as he read, losther last hope, and with the look of such anguish as he had never beforeseen, drew the paper from him, and caught his hand in hers in wildentreaty. 

"Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do something forhim. There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life. "

He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but the imploringpressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him. Already the griefthat kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if her father died she wouldnot long survive him. 

"Don't say what is untrue, " she continued. "Don't let me drive you intotelling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope no chance. "

"It may be, " said Brian. "You must not expect, for those far wiser thanI say it can not be. But I hope yes, I still hope. "

On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and forthe first time she noticed that her father, who was free from fever, followed her everywhere with his eyes. She knew intuitively that hethought himself dying. 

Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing her fingersthrough his thick masses of snow-white hair in the way he liked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with his own strangelysimilar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sort of dumb yearning. 

"Little son Eric, " he said, faintly, "you will go on with the work I amleaving. "

"Yes, father, " she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if it wouldbreak. 

"A harmful delusion, " he murmured, half to himself, "taking up our bestmen! Swallowing up the money of the people. What's that singing, Erica?"

"It is the children in the hospital, " she replied. "I'll shut the windowif they disturb you, father. "

"No, " he said. "One can tolerate the delusion for them if it makes theirpain more bearable. Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Pain is an odd mystery. "

He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to thesinging, which floated in clearly through the open window at rightangles with the back windows of the hospital. Neither of them knew whatthe hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse as if eventhe tinies were joining in it was quite audible to Luke Raeburn and hisdaughter. 

"Through life's long day, and death's dark night, Oh, gentle Jesus, beour light. "

Erica's breath came in gasps. To be reminded then that life was long andthat death was dark!

She thought she had never prayed, she had never consciously prayed, buther whole life for the past three years had been an unspoken prayer. Never was there a more true desire entirely unexpressed than the desirewhich now seemed to possess her whole being. The darkness would soonhide forever the being she most loved. Oh, if she could but honestlythink that He who called Himself the Light of the world was indeed stillliving, still ready to help!

But to allow her distress to gain the mastery over her would certainlydisturb and grieve her father. With a great effort she stifled the sobswhich would rise in her throat, and waited in rigid stillness. When thelast notes of the hymn had died away into silence, she turned to look ather father. He had fallen asleep. 

CHAPTER XVIII. Answered or Unanswered?

 "Glory to God to God!" he saith, "Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death. " E. B. Browning

"Mr. Raeburn is curiously like the celebrated dog of nursery lore, whoappertained to the ancient and far-famed Mother Hubbard. All thedoctors gave him up, all the secularists prepared mourning garments, the printers were meditating black borders for the 'Idol-Breaker, ' therelative merits of burial and cremation were already in discussion, whenthe dog we beg pardon the leader of atheism, came to life again. 

 "'She went to the joiners to buy him a coffin, But when she came back the dog was laughing. '

"History, " as a great man was fond of remarking, "'repeats itself. '"

Raeburn laughed heartily over the accounts of his recovery in the comicpapers. No one better appreciated the very clever representation ofhimself as a huge bull-dog starting up into life while Britannia inwidow's weeds brought in a parish coffin. Erica would hardly look at thething; she had suffered too much to be able to endure any jokes onthe subject, and she felt hurt and angry that what had given her suchanguish should be turned into a foolish jest. 

At length, after many weeks of weary anxiety, she was able to breathefreely once more, for her father steadily regained his strength. Thedevotion of her whole time and strength and thought to another had donewonders for her, her character had strangely deepened and mellowed. Butno sooner was she free to begin her ordinary life than new perplexitiesbeset her on every side. 

During her own long illness she had of course been debarred fromattending any lectures or meetings whatever. In the years following, before she had quite regained her strength, she had generally gone tohear her father, but had never become again a regular attendant at thelecture hall. Now that she was quite well, however, there was nothingto prevent her attending as many lectures as she pleased, and naturally, her position as Luke Raeburn's daughter made her presence desirable. So it came to pass one Sunday evening in July that she happened to bepresent at a lecture given by a Mr. Masterman. 

He was a man whom they knew intimately. Erica liked him sufficientlywell in private life, and he had been remarkably kind and helpful at thetime of her father's illness. It was some years, however, since she hadheard him lecture, and this evening, by the virulence of his attackon the character of Christ, he revealed to her how much her ground hadshifted since she had last heard him. It was not that he was an opponentof existing Christianity her father was that, she herself was that, andfelt bound to be as long as she considered it a lie but Mr. Masterman'sattack seemed to her grossly unfair, almost willfully inaccurate, and, in addition, his sarcasm and pleasantries seemed to her odiously vulgar. He was answered by a most miserable representative of Christianity, whomade a foolish, weak, blustering speech, and tried to pay the atheistback in his own coin. Erica felt wretched. She longed to get up andspeak herself, longing flatly to contradict the champion of her owncause; then grew frightened at the strength of her feelings. Could thisbe mere love of fair play and justice? Was her feeling merely that of abarrister who would argue as well on one side as the other? And yet herdispleasure in itself proved little or nothing. Would not Charles Osmondbe displeased and indignant if he heard her father unjustly spoken of?Yes, but then Luke Raeburn was a living man, and Christ was she evensure that he had ever lived? Well, yes, sure of that, but of how muchmore?

When the assembly broke up, her mind was in a miserable chaos of doubt. 

It was one of those delicious summer evenings when even in East Londonthe skies are mellow and the air sweet and cool. 

"Oh, Tom, let us walk home!" she exclaimed, longing for change of sceneand exercise. 

"All right, " he replied, "I'll take you a short cut, if you don't mind afew back slums to begin with. "

Now Erica was familiar enough with the sight of poverty and squalor;she had not lived at the West End, where you may entirely forgetthe existence of the poor. The knowledge of evil had come to her ofnecessity much earlier than to most girls, and tonight, as Tom took herthrough a succession of narrow streets and dirty courts, misery, andvice, and hopeless degradation met her on every side. Swarms of filthylittle children wrangled and fought in the gutters, drunken womenshouted foul language at one another everywhere was wickednesseverywhere want. Her heart felt as if it would break. What was to reachthese poor, miserable fellow creatures of hers? Who was to raise themout of their horrible plight? The coarse distortion and the narrowcontraction of Christ's teaching which she had just heard, offered noremedy for this evil. Nor could she think that secularism would reachthese. To understand secularism you meed a fair share of intellect whatintellect would these poor creatures have? Why, you might talk foreverof the "good of humanity, " and "the duty of promoting the general good, "and they would not so much as grasp the idea of what "good" was theywould sink back to their animal-like state. Instinctively her thoughtsturned to the Radical Reformer who, eighteen hundred years ago, hadlived among people just as wicked, just as wretched. How had He worked?What had He done? All through His words and actions had sounded the onekey-note, "Your Father. " Always He had led them to look up to a perfectBeing who loved them, who was present with them. 

Was it possible that if Christians had indeed followed their Leader andnot obscured His teaching with hideous secretions of doctrine which Hehad assuredly never taught was it possible that the Christ-gospel in itsoriginal simplicity would indeed be the remedy for all evil?

They were coming into broader thoroughfares now. A wailing child's voicefell on her ear. A small crowd of disreputable idlers was hanging roundthe closed doors of a public-house, waiting eagerly for the openingwhich would take place at the close of service-time. The wailing child'svoice grew more and more piteous. Erica saw that it came from a poorlittle half-clad creature of three years old who was clinging to theskirts of a miserable-looking woman with a shawl thrown over her head. Just as she drew near, the woman, with a fearful oath, tried to shakeherself free of the child; then, with uplifted arms, was about to dealit a heavy blow when Erica caught her hand as it descended, and held itfast in both her hands. 

"Don't hurt him, " she said, "please don't hurt him. "

She looked into the prematurely wrinkled face, into the half-dim eyes, she held the hand fast with a pressure not of force but of entreaty. Then they passed on, the by-standers shouting out the derisive chorusof "Come to Jesus!" with which London roughs delight in mocking anypassenger whom they suspect of religious tendencies. In all her sadness, Erica could not help smiling to herself. That she, an atheist, LukeRaeburn's daughter, should be hooted at as a follower of Jesus!

In the meantime the woman she had spoken to stood still staring afterher. If an angel had suddenly appeared to her, she could not have beenmore startled. A human hand had given her coarse, guilty, trembling handsuch a living pressure as it had never before received; a pure, lovingface had looked at her; a voice, which was trembling with earnestnessand full of the pathos of restrained tears, had pleaded with her for herown child. The woman's dormant motherhood sprung into life. Yes, he washer own child after all. She did not really want to hurt him, but a sortof demon was inside her, the demon of drink and sometimes it made heralmost mad. She looked down now with love-cleared eyes at the littlecrying child who still clung to her ragged skirt. She stooped and pickedhim up, and wrapped a bit of her shawl round him. Presently after afearful struggle, she turned away from the public-house and carried thechild home to bed. 

The jeering chorus was soon checked, for the shutters were taken down, and the doors thrown wide, and light, and cheerfulness, and shelter, andthe drink they were all craving for, were temptingly displayed to drawin the waiting idlers. 

But the woman had gone home, and one rather surly looking man stillleaned against the wall looking up the street where Tom and Erica haddisappeared. 

"Blowed if that ain't a bit of pluck!" he said to himself, and therewithfell into a reverie. 

Tom talked of temperance work, about which he was very eager, all theway to Guilford Terrace. Erica, on reaching home, went at once to herfather's room. She found him propped up with pillows in his armchair; he was still only well enough to attempt the lightest of lightliterature, and was looking at some old volumes of "Punch" which theOsmonds had sent across. 

"You look tired, Eric!" he exclaimed. "Was there a good attendance?"

"Very, " she replied, but so much less brightly than usual that Raeburnat once divined that something had annoyed her. 

"Was Mr. Masterman dull?"

"Not dull, " she replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more than her usualvehemence, "Father, I can't endure him! I wish we didn't have such menon our side! He is so flippant, so vulgar!"

"Of course he never was a model of refinement, " said Raeburn, "but heis effective very effective. It is impossible that you should likehis style; he is, compared with you, what a theatrical poster is to adelicate tete-de-greuze. How did he specially offend you tonight?"

"It was all hateful from the very beginning, " said Erica. "And sprinkledall through with doubtful jests, which of course pleased the people. Onedespicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem, which I believe he musthave 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 ourMoodys 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 leastbound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. But rememberthis, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let me quote to youone of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick out hawks' een. ' Youare 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 itand 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 whichhad begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would not be conqueredeven by the most delightful of all humorous fiction. 

During the next few days this thought-struggle raged. So great wasErica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that shewould not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or to CharlesOsmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her character seemed ahindrance. 

She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful, and animmense amount of steady common sense. At the same time she was almostas keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father. Honestly dreadingto allow her poetic faculty due play, she kept her imagination rigidlywithin the narrowest bounds. She was thus honestly handicapped in therace; the honesty was, however, a little mistaken and one-sided, fornot the most vivid imagination could be considered as a set-off to thegreat, the incalculable counter-influence of her whole education andsurroundings. How she got through that black struggle was sometimesa mystery to her. At last, one evening, when the load had grownintolerable, she shut herself into her own room, and, forgetful of allher logical arguments, spoke to the unknown God. Her hopelessness, her desperation, drove her as a last resource to cry to the possiblyExistent. 

She stood by the open window of her little room, with her arms on thewindow sill, looking out into the summer night, just as years beforeshe had stood when making up her mind to exile and sacrifice. Then thewintery heavens had been blacker and the stars brighter, now both skyand stars were dimmer because more light. Over the roofs of the GuilfordSquare houses she could see Charles' Wain and the Pole-star, but onlyfaintly. 

"God!" she cried, "I have no reason to think that Thou art except thatthere is such fearful need of Thee. I can see no single proof in theworld that Thou art here. But if what Christ said was true, then Thoumust care that I should know Thee, for I must be Thy child. Oh, God, ifThou art oh, Father, if Thou art help us to know Thee! Show us what istrue!"

She waited and waited, hoping for some sort of answer, some thought, some conviction. But she found, as many have found before her, that "theheavens were as brass. "

"Of course it was no use!" she exclaimed, impatiently, yet with ablankness of disappointment which in itself proved the reality of herexpectations. 

Just then she heard Tom's voice at the foot of the stairs calling; itseemed like the seal to her impatient "of course. " There was no Unseen, no Eternal of course not! But there was a busy every-day life to belived. 

"All right, " she returned impatiently, to Tom's repeated calls; "don'tmake such a noise or else you'll disturb father. "

"He is wide awake, " said Tom, "and talking to the professor. Just lookhere, I couldn't help fetching you down did you ever see such a speechin your life? A regular brick he must be!"

He held an evening paper in his hand. Erica remembered that thedebate was to be on a question affecting all free-thinkers. During thediscussion of this, some one had introduced a reference to the HydePark meeting and to Mr. Raeburn, and had been careful not to lose theopportunity of making a spiteful and misleading remark about the apostleof atheism. Tom hurried her through this, however, to the speech thatfollowed it. 

"Wait a minute, " she said. "Who is Mr. Farrant? I never heard of himbefore. "

"Member for Greyshot, elected last spring, don't you remember? One ofthe by-elections. Licked the Tories all to fits. This is his maidenspeech, and that makes it all the more plucky of him to take up thecudgels in our defense. Here! Let me read it to you. "

With the force of one who is fired with a new and hearty admiration, heread the report. The speech was undoubtedly a fine one; it was a grandprotest against intolerance, a plea for justice. The speaker hadnot hesitated for an instant to raise his voice in behalf of a veryunpopular cause, and his generous words, even when read through themedium of an indifferent newspaper report, awoke a strange thrill inErica's heart. The utter disregard of self, the nobility of the wholespeech struck her immensely. The man who had dared to stand up for thefirst time in Parliament and speak thus, must be one in a thousand. Presently came the most daring and disinterested touch of all. 

"The honorable member for Rilchester made what I can not but regard asa most misleading and unnecessary remark with reference to the recentoccurrence in Hyde Park, and to Mr. Raeburn. I listened to it with pain, for, if there can be degrees in the absolute evil of injustice and lackof charity, it seems to me that the highest degree is reached in thatuncharitableness which tries to blacken the character of an opponent. Since the subject has been introduced, the House will, I hope, bearwith me if for the sake of justice I for a moment allude to a personalmatter. Some years ago I myself was an atheist, and I can only say that, speaking now from the directly opposite standpoint, I can still lookback and thank Mr. Raeburn most heartily for the good service he did me. He was the first man who ever showed me, by words and example combined, that life is only noble when lived for the race. The statement made bythe honorable member for Rilchester seems to me as incorrect as it wasuncalled for. Surely this assembly will best prove its high characternot by loud religious protestations, not by supporting a narrow, Pharisaical measure, but by impartiality, by perfect justice, by themanifestation in deed and word of that broad-hearted charity, thatuniversal brotherliness, which alone deserves the name of Christianity. "

The manifestation of the speaker's generosity and universalbrotherliness came like a light to Erica's darkness. It did not end herstruggle, but it did end her despair. A faint, indefinable hope rose inher heart. 

Mr. Farrant's maiden speech made a considerable stir; it met with somepraise and much blame. Erica learned from one of the papers that hewas Mr. Donovan Farrant, and at once felt convinced that he was the"Donovan" whom both Charles Osmond and Brian had mentioned to her. Sheseemed to know a good deal about him. Probably they had never toldher his surname because they knew that some day he would be a publiccharacter. With instinctive delicacy she refrained from making anyreference to his speech, or any inquiry as to his identity with the"Donovan" of whose inner life she had heard. Very soon after that, too, she went down to the sea side with her father, and when they came backto town the Osmonds had gone abroad, so it was not until the autumn thatthey again met. 

Her stay at Codrington wonderfully refreshed her; it was the first timein her life that she had taken a thorough holiday, with change of sceneand restful idleness to complete it. The time was outwardly uneventfulenough, but her father grew strong in body and she grew strong in mind. 

One absurd little incident she often laughed over afterward. It happenedthat in the "On-looker" there was a quotation from some unnamed medievalwriter; she and her father had a discussion as to whom it could be, Raeburn maintaining that it was Thomas a Kempis. Wishing to verify it, Erica went to a bookseller's and asked for the "Imitation of Christ. " Arather prim-looking dame presided behind the counter. 

"We haven't that book, miss, " she said, "it's quite out of fashion now. "

"I agree with you, " said Erica, greatly amused. "It must be quite outof fashion, for I scarcely know half a dozen people who practice it. "However, a second shop appeared to think differently, for it had Thomasa Kempis in every conceivable size, shape, and binding. Erica boughta little sixpenny copy and went back to the beach, where she made herfather laugh over her story. 

They verified the quotation, and by and by Erica began to read thebook. On the very first page she came to words which made her pause andrelapse into a deep reverie. 

"But he who would fully and feelingly understand the words of Christ, must study to make his whole life conformable to that of Christ. "

The thought linked itself in her mind with some words of John StuartMill's which she had heard quoted till she was almost weary of them. 

"Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find a bettertranslation for the rule of virtue from the abstract into the concrete, than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approve our life. "

While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted hernotice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach, trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heart wouldbreak. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and consoling, but atlast, finding it impossible to draw forth an intelligible word from thesobs and tears, she took the little thing in her arms and carried her toher father. Raeburn was a great child lover, and had a habit of carryinggoodies in his pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children withwhom he was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, whichrestored the small maiden's serenity for a minute. 

"She must have lost her way, " he said, glancing from the lovely littletear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands ofthe little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently shevolunteered a remark. 

"Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ranaway. "

"Where is your home?" asked Erica. 

"Me don't know! Me don't know!" cried Dolly, bursting into tears again, and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. "Father! Father, Dolly wantsfather. "

"We will come and look for him, " said Erica, "but you must stop crying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look for you. "

At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if expectingto see him close by. 

"He isn't there, " she said, piteously. 

"Come and let us look for him, " said Erica. 

Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled up thesteep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused for a moment, wondering which direction they had better take, when a voice behind hermade her start. 

"Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!"

Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the arms ofa tall, dark, rather foreign-looking man, who caught her up and held herclosely. 

He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Ericathought his face the noblest she had ever seen. 

CHAPTER XIX. At The Museum

 Methought I heard one calling: "Child, " And I replied: 'My Lord!'" George Herbert

A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradual growthof the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acorn in a glassof water and watch the slow progress during long months. First one tinywhite thread is put forth, then another, until at length the glass isalmost filled with a tangle of white fibers, a sturdy little stemraises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is to live, must be at oncetransplanted into good soil. The process may be botanically interesting, but there is something a little sickly about it, too there is a feelingthat, after all, the acorn would have done better in its natural groundhidden away in darkness. 

And, if we have this feeling with regard to vegetable growth, how muchmore with regard to spiritual growth! To attempt to set up the graduallyawakening spirit in an apparatus where it might be the observed of allobservers would be at once repulsive and presumptuous. Happily, it isimpossible. We may trace influences and suggestions, just as we may notethe rain or drought, the heat or cold that affect vegetable growth, butthe actual birth is ever hidden. 

To attempt even to shadow forth Erica's growth during the next yearwould be worse than presumptuous. As to her outward life it was notgreatly changed, only intensified. October always began their busiestsix months. There was the night school at which she was able to workagain indefatigably. There were lectures to be attended. Above all therewas an ever-increasing amount of work to be done for her father. In allthe positive and constructive side of secularism, in all the effortsmade by it to better humanity, she took an enthusiastic share. Naturallyshe did not see so much of Charles Osmond now that she was strong again. In the press of business, in the hard, every-day life there was littletime for discussion. They met frequently, but never for one of theirlong tete-a-tetes. Perhaps Erica purposely avoided them. She wasstrangely different now from the little impetuous girl who had come tohis study years ago, trembling with anger at the lady superintendent'sinsult. Insults had since then, alas, become so familiar to her, thatshe had acquired a sort of patient dignity of endurance, infinitely sadto watch in such a young girl. 

One morning in early June, just a year after the memorable Hyde Parkmeeting, Charles Osmond happened to be returning from the death bed ofone of his parishioners when, at the corner of Guilford Square, he metErica. It might have been in part the contrast with the sad and painfulscene he had just quitted, but he thought she had never before looked sobeautiful. Her face seemed to have taken to itself the freshness and theglow of the summer morning. 

"You are early abroad, " he said, feeling older and grayer and more tiredthan ever as he paused to speak to her. 

"I am off to the museum to read, " she said, "I like to get there bynine, then you don't have to wait such an age for your books; I can'tbear waiting. "

"What are you at work upon now?"

"Oh, today for the last time I am going to hunt up particulars aboutLivingstone. Hazeldine was very anxious that a series of papers on hislife should be written for our people. What a grand fellow he was!"

"I heard a characteristic anecdote of him the other day, " said CharlesOsmond. "He was walking beside one of the African lakes which he haddiscovered, when suddenly there dawned on him a new meaning to longfamiliar words: 'The blood of Christ, ' he exclaimed. 'That must beCharity! The blood of Christ that must be Charity!' A beautiful thought, too seldom practically taught. "

Erica looked grave. 

"Characteristic, certainly, of his broad-heartedness, but I don't thinkthat anecdote will do for the readers of the 'Idol-Breaker. '" Then, looking up at Charles Osmond, she added in a rather lower tone: "Doyou know, I had no idea when I began what a difficult task I had got. Ithought in such an active life as that there would be little difficultyin keeping the religious part away from the secular, but it is wonderfulhow Livingstone contrives to mix them up. "

"You see, if Christianity be true, it must, as you say, 'mix up' witheverything. There should be no rigid distinction between secular andreligious, " said Charles Osmond. 

"If it is true, " said Erica, suddenly, and with seeming irrelevance, "then sooner or later we must learn it to be so. Truth MUST win in theend. But it is worse to wait for perfect certainty than for books atthe museum, " she added, laughing. "It is five minutes to nine I shall belate. "

Charles Osmond walked home thoughtfully; the meeting had somehow cheeredhim. 

"Absolute conviction that truth must out that truth must make itselfperceptible. I've not often come across a more beautiful faith thanthat. Yes, little Undine, right you are. 'Ye shall know the truth, andthe truth shall make you free. ' Here or there, here or there

 'All things come round to him who will but wait. '

There's one for yourself, Charles Osmond. None of your hurrying andmeddling now, old man; you've just got to leave it to your betters. "

Soliloquizing after this fashion he reached home, and was not sorry tofind his breakfast awaiting him, for he had been up the greater part ofthe night. 

The great domed library of the British Museum had become very home-liketo Erica, it was her ideal of comfort; she went there whenever shewanted quiet, for in the small and crowded lodgings she could never besecure from interruptions, and interruptions resulted in bad work. Therewas something, too, in the atmosphere of the museum which seemed to helpher. She liked the perfect stillness, she liked the presence of all thebooks. Above all, too, she liked the consciousness of possession. Therewas no narrow exclusiveness about this place, no one could look askanceat her here. The place belonged to the people, and therefore belongedto her; she heretic and atheist as she was had as much share in theownership as the highest in the land. She had her own peculiar nook overby the encyclopedias, and, being always an early comer, seldom failed tosecure her own particular chair and desk. 

On this morning she took her place, as she had done hundreds of timesbefore, and was soon hard at work. She was finishing her last paper onLivingstone when a book she had ordered was deposited on her desk by oneof the noiseless attendants. She wanted it to verify one or two dates, and she half thought she would try to hunt up Charles Osmond's anecdote. In order to write her series of papers, she had been obliged to studythe character of the great explorer pretty thoroughly. She had alwaysbeen able to see the nobility even of those differing most widelyfrom herself in point of creed, and the great beauty of Livingstone'scharacter had impressed her very much. Today she happened to open onan entry in his journal which seemed particularly characteristic of theman. He was in great danger from the hostile tribes at the union ofthe Zambesi and Loangwa, and there was something about his spontaneousutterance which appealed very strongly to Erica. 

"Felt much turmoil of spirit in view of having all my plans for thewelfare of this great region and teeming population knocked on the headby savages tomorrow. But I read that Jesus came and said: 'All poweris given unto me in Heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore and teach allnations, and lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. 'It is the word of a gentleman of the most sacred and strictest honor, and there's an end on't. I will not cross furtively by night as Iintended. .. Nay, verily, I shall take observations for latitude andlongitude tonight, though they may be the last. "

The courage, the daring, the perseverance, the intense faith of the manshone out in these sentences. Was it indeed a delusion, such practicalfaith as that?

Blackness of darkness seemed to hem her in. She struggled through itonce more by the one gleam of certainty which had come to her in thepast year. Truth must be self-revealing. Sooner or later, if she werehonest, if she did not shut her mind deliberately up with the assurance"You have thought out these matters fully and fairly; enough! Let usnow rest content" and if she were indeed a true "Freethinker, " she MUSTknow. And even as that conviction returned to her the words half quaint, half pathetic, came to her mind: "It is the word of a gentleman of themost sacred and strictest honor, and there's an end on't. "

Yes, there would "be an end on't, " if she could feel sure that he, too, was not deluded. 

She turned over the pages of the book, and toward the end found a copyof the inscription on Livingstone's tomb. Her eye fell on the words:"And other sheep I have which are not of this fold; them also I mustbring, and they shall hear My voice. "

Somehow the mention of the lost sheep brought to her mind the littlelost child on the beach at Codrington Dolly, who had "putted on" her ownhat, who had wanted to be independent and to dig by herself. She had runaway from home, and could not find the way back. What a steep climb theyhad had up the beach how the little thing's tiny feet had slipped andstumbled over the stones, and just when they were most perplexed, thefather had found them. 

Exactly how it all came to her Erica never knew, nor could she ever putinto words the story of the next few moments. When "God's great sunrise"finds us out we have need of something higher than human speech thereARE no words for it. At the utmost she could only say that it was likecoming out of the twilight, that it seemed as if she were immersed in agreat wave of all pervading light. 

All in a moment the Christ who had been to her merely a noble characterof ancient history seemed to become to her the most real and living ofall living realities. Even her own existence seemed to fade into avague and misty shadow in comparison with the intensity of this newconsciousness this conviction of His being which surrounded her whichshe knew, indeed, to be "way, and truth, and life. They shall hearMy voice. " In the silence of waiting, in the faithfulness of honestsearching, Erica for the first time in her life heard it. Yes, she hadbeen right truth was self-revealing. A few minutes ago those words hadbeen to her an unfulfilled, a vain promise the speaker, broad-heartedand loving as he was, had doubtless been deluded. But now the voicespoke to her, called her by name, told her what she wanted. 

"Dolly, " became to her a parable of life. She had been like that littlechild; for years and years she had been toiling up over rough stonesand slippery pebbles, but at last she had heard the voice. Was this thecoming to the Father?

That which often appears sudden and unaccountable is, if we did butknow it, a slow, beautiful evolution. It was now very nearly seven yearssince the autumn afternoon when the man "too nice to be a clergyman, "and "not a bit like a Christian, " had come to Erica's home, had shownher that at least one of them practiced the universal brotherlinesswhich almost all preached. It was nearly seven years since words ofabsolute conviction, words of love and power, had first sounded forthfrom Christian lips in her father's lecture hall, and had awakened inher mind that miserably uncomfortable question "supposing Christianityshould be true?"

All the most beautiful influences are quiet; only the destructiveagencies, the stormy wind, the heavy rain and hail, are noisy. Love ofthe deepest sort is wordless, the sunshine steals down silently, the dewfalls noiselessly, and the communion of spirit with spirit is calmer andquieter than anything else in the world quiet as the spontaneous turningof the sunflower to the sun when the heavy clouds have passed away, andthe light and warmth reveal themselves. The subdued rustle of leaves, the hushed footsteps sounded as usual in the great library, but Ericawas beyond the perception of either place or time. 

Presently she was recalled by the arrival of another student, who tookthe chair next to hers a little deformed man, with a face which lookedprematurely old, and sad, restless eyes. A few hours before she wouldhave regarded him with a sort of shuddering compassion; now with thecompassion there came to her the thought of compensation which even hereand now might make the poor fellow happy. Was he not immortal? Might henot here and now learn what she had just learned, gain that unspeakablejoy? And might not the knowledge go on growing and increasing forever?She took up her pen once more, verified the dates, rolled up hermanuscript, and with one look at Livingstones's journal, returned it tothe clerk and left the library. 

It was like coming into a new world; even dingy Bloomsbury seemedbeautiful. Her face was so bright, so like the face of a happy child, that more than one passer-by was startled by it, lifted for a momentfrom sordid cares into a purer atmosphere. She felt a longing to speakto some one who would understand her new happiness. She had reachedGuilford Square, and looked doubtfully across to the Osmonds' house. They would understand. But no she must tell her father first. And then, with a fearful pang, she realized what her new conviction meant. Itmeant bringing the sword into her father's house; it meant grieving himwith a life-long grief; it meant leaving the persecuted minority andgoing over to the triumphant majority; it meant unmitigated pain to allthose she loved best. 

Erica had had her full share of pain, but never had she known anythingso agonizing as that moment's sharp revulsion. Mechanically she walkedon until she reached home; nobody was in. She looked into the littlesitting room but, only Friskarina sat purring on the rug. The tablewas strewn with the Saturday papers; the midday post had just come. She turned over the letters and found one for herself in her father'shandwriting. It was the one thing needed to complete the realizationof her pain. She snatched it up with a stifled sob, ran upstairs to herroom, and threw herself down on the bed in silent agony. 

A new joy had come to her which her father could not share; a joy whichhe would call a delusion, which he spent a great part of his lifein combating. To tell him that she was convinced of the truth ofChristianity why, it would almost break his heart. 

And yet she must inflict this terrible pain. Her nature was far toonoble to have dreamed for a single instant of temporizing, of keepingher thoughts to herself. A Raeburn was not likely to fail either incourage or in honesty; but with her courage and honesty, Erica had theviolin-like sensitiveness of nature which Eric Haeberlein had noticedeven in her childhood. She saw in the future all the pain she must bringto her father, intensified by her own sensitiveness. She knew so wellwhat her feelings would have been but a short time ago, if any one shegreatly loved had "fallen back" into Christianity. How could she tellhim? How COULD she!

Yet it was a thing which must be done. Should she write to him? No, theletter might reach him when he was tired and worried yet, to speak wouldbe more painful. 

She got up and went to the window, and let the summer wind blow on herheated forehead. The world had seemed to her just before one gloriouspresence-chamber full of sunshine and rejoicing. But already the shadowof a life-long pain had fallen on her heart. A revealed Christ meantalso a revealed cross, and a right heavy one. 

It was only by degrees that she grew strong again, and Livingstone'stext came back to her once more, "I am with you always. "

By and by she opened her father's letter. It ran as follows:

"I have just remembered that Monday will be your birthday. Let us spendit together, little son Erica. A few days at Codrington would do usboth good, and I have a tolerably leisure week. If you can come down onSaturday afternoon, so much the better. I will meet you there, if youwill telegraph reply as soon as you get this. I have three lectures atHelmstone on Sunday, but you will probably prefer a quiet day by thesea. Bring me Westcott's new book, and you might put in the chisel andhammer. We will do a little geologizing for the professor, if we havetime. Meeting here last night a great success. Your loving father, LukeRaeburn. "

"He is only thinking how he can give me pleasure, " sighed Erica. "And Ihave nothing to give him but pain. "

She went at once, however, for the "Bradshaw, " and looked out theafternoon trains to Codrington. 

CHAPTER XX. Storm

 And seems she mid deep silence to a strain To listen, which the soul alone can know, Saying: "Fear naught, for Jesus came on earth, Jesus of endless joys the wide, deep sea, To ease each heavy load of mortal birth. His waters ever clearest, sweetest be To him who in a lonely bark drifts forth On His great deeps of goodness trustfully. " From Vittoria Colonna

Codrington was one of the very few sea-side places within fairly easyreach of London which had not been vulgarized into an ordinary wateringplace. It was a primitive little place with one good, old-establishedhotel, and a limited number of villas and lodging houses, which onlyserved as a sort of ornamental fringe to the picturesque little fishingtown. 

The fact was that it was just midway between two large and deservedlypopular resorts, and so it had been overlooked, and to the regret of thethrifty inhabitants and the satisfaction of the visitors who came therefor quiet, its peaceful streets and its stony beach were never invadedby excursionists. No cockneys came down for the Sunday to eat shrimps;the shrimps were sent away by train to the more favored watering places, and the Codrington shop keepers shook their heads and gave up expectingto make a fortune in such a conservative little place. Erica said itreminded her of the dormouse in "Alice In Wonderland, " tyrannizedover by the hatter on one side and the March hare on the other, andeventually put head foremost into the teapot. Certainly Helmstone on theeast and Westport on the west had managed to eclipse it altogether, andits peaceful sleepiness made the dormouse comparison by no means inapt. 

It all looked wonderfully unchanged as she walked from the station thatsummer afternoon with her father. The square, gray tower of St. Oswald'sChurch, the little, winding, irregular streets, the very shop windowsseemed quite unaltered, while at every turn familiar faces came intosight. The shrewd old sailor with the telescope, the prim old lady atthe bookseller's, who had pronounced the "Imitation of Christ" to bequite out of fashion, the sturdy milkman, with white smock-frock, andbright pails fastened to a wooden yoke, and the coast-guardsman, who wasalways whistling "Tom Bowling. "

The sea was as calm as a mill pond; Raeburn suggested an hour or two onthe water and Erica, who was fond of boating, gladly assented. She hadmade up her ind not to speak to her father that evening; he had a veryhard day's work before him on the Sunday; they must have these few hoursin peace. She did not in the least dread any subject coming up whichmight put her into difficulty, for, on the rare days when her fatherallowed himself any recreation, he entirely banished all controversialtopics from his mind. He asked no single question relating to the workor to business of any kind, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of amuch-needed rest and relaxation. He seemed in excellent spirits, andErica herself would have been rapturously happy if she had not beenhaunted by the thought of the pain that awaited him. She knew that thiswas the last evening she and her father should ever spend together inthe old perfect confidence; division the most painful of all divisionslay before them. 

The next day she was left to herself. She would not go to the oldgray-towered church, though as an atheist she had gone to one or twochurches to look and listen, she felt that she could not honorably go asa worshiper till she had spoken to her father. So she wandered about onthe shore, and in the restful quiet learned more and grew stronger, andconquered the dread of the morrow. She did not see her father again thatday for he could not get back from Helmstone till a late train, and shehad promised not to sit up for him. 

The morning of her twenty-third birthday was bright and sunshiny; shehad slept well, but awoke with the oppressive consciousness that aterrible hard duty lay before her. When she came down there wasa serious look in her eyes which did not escape Raeburn's keenobservation. He was down before her, and had been out already, for hehad managed somehow to procure a lovely handful of red and white rosesand mignonette. 

"All good wishes for your birthday, and 'sweets to the sweet' as someone remarked on a more funereal occasion, " he said, stooping to kissher. "Dear little son Eric, it is very jolly to have you to myself foronce. No disrespect to Aunt Jean and old Tom, but two is company. " "Whatlovely flowers!" exclaimed Erica. "How good of you! Where did they comefrom?"

"I made love to old Nicolls, the florist, to let me gather these myself;he was very anxious to make a gorgeous arrangement done up in whitepaper with a lace edge, and thought me a fearful Goth for preferringthis disorderly bunch. "

They sat down to breakfast; afterward the morning papers came in, andRaeburn disappeared behind the "Daily Review, " while the servant clearedthe table. Erica stood by the open French window; she knew that in a fewminutes she must speak, and how to get what she had to say into wordsshe did not know. Her heart beat so fast that she felt almost choked. Ina sort of dream of pain she watched the passers-by happy looking girlsgoing down to bathe, children with spades and pails. Everything seemedso tranquil, so ordinary while before her lay a duty which must changeher whole world. 

"Not much news, " said Raeburn, coming toward her as the servant left theroom. "For dullness commend me to a Monday paper! Well, Eric, how arewe to spend your twenty-third birthday? To think that I have actuallya child of twenty-three! Why, I ought to feel an old patriarch, and, inspite of white hair and life-long badgering, I don't, you know. Come, what shall we do. Where would you like to go?"

"Father, " said Erica, "I want first to have a talk with you. I--I havesomething to tell you. "

There was no longer any mistaking that the seriousness meant some kindof trouble. Raeburn put his arm round her. 

"Why, my little girl, " he said, tenderly. "You are trembling all over. What is the matter?"

"The matter is that what I have to say will pain you, and it half killsme to do that. But there is no choice tell you I must. You would notwish me not to be true, not to be honest. "

Utter perplexity filled Raeburn's mind. What phantom trouble wasthreatening him? Had she been commissioned to tell him of some untowardevent? Some business calamity? Had she fallen in love with some one hecould not permit her to marry? He looked questioningly at her, but herexpression only perplexed him still more; she was trembling no longer, and her eyes were clear and bright, there was a strong look about herwhole face. 

"Father, " she said, quietly, "I have learned to believe in JesusChrist. "

He wrenched away his arm; he started back from her as if she had stabbedhim. For a minute he looked perfectly dazed. 

At last, after a silence which seemed to each of them age-long, he spokein the agitated voice of one who has just received a great blow. 

"Do you know what you are saying, Erica? Do you know what such aconfession as you have made will involve? Do you mean that you acceptthe whole of Christ's teaching?

"Yes, " she replied, firmly, "I do. "

"You intend to turn Christian?"

"Yes, to try to. "

"How long have you and Mr. Osmond been concocting this?"

"I don't know what you mean, " said Erica, terribly wounded by his tone. 

"Did he send you down here to tell me?"

"Mr. Osmond knows nothing about it, " said Erica. "How could I tell anyone before you, father?"

Raeburn was touched by this. He took several turns up and down the roombefore speaking again, but the more he grasped the idea the deeper grewhis grief and the hotter his anger. He was a man of iron will, however, and he kept both under. When at length he did speak, his voice was quietand cold and repressed. 

"Sit down, " he said, motioning her to a chair. "This is not a subjectthat we can dismiss in five minutes' talk. I must hear your reasons. Wewill put aside all personal considerations. I will consider you just asan ordinary opponent. "

His coldness chilled her to the heart. Was it always to be like this?How could she possibly endure it? How was she to answer his questionshow was she to vindicate her faith when the mere tone of his voiceseemed to paralyze her heart? He was indeed treating her with the coldformality of an opponent, but never for a single instant could sheforget that he was her father the being she loved best in the wholeworld. 

But Erica was brave and true; she knew that this was a crisis in theirlives, and, thrusting down her own personal pain, she forced herself togive her whole heart and mind to the searching and perplexing questionswith which her father intended to test the reality of her convictions. Had she been unaccustomed to his mode of attack he would have hopelesslysilenced her, as far as argument goes in half an hour; but not only wasErica's faith perfectly real, but she had, as it were, herself traversedthe whole of his objections and difficulties. Though far from imaginingthat she understood everything, she had yet so firmly grasped theinnermost truth that all details as yet outside her vision were to herno longer hindrances and bugbears, but so many new possibilities otherhopes of fresh manifestations of God. 

She held her ground well, and every minute Raeburn realized more keenlythat whatever hopes he had entertained of reconvincing her were futile. What made it all the more painful to him was that the thoroughnessof the training he had given her now only told against him, and theargument which he carried on in a cold, metallic voice was reallypiercing his very heart, for it was like arguing against another self, the dearest part of himself gone over to the enemy's side. 

At last he saw that argument was useless, and then, in his grief anddespair, he did for a time lose his self-control. Erica had often feltsorry for the poor creatures who had to bear the brunt of her father'sscathing sarcasm. But platform irony was a trifle to the torrent whichbore down upon her today. When a strong man does lose his restraint uponhimself, the result is terrific. Raeburn had never sufficientlycared for an adversary as to be moved beyond an anger which could berestricted and held within due bounds; he of course cared more for thesuccess of his cause and his own dignity. But now his love drove him todespair; his intolerable grief at the thought of having an opponent inhis own child burst all restraining bonds. Wounded to the quick, he whohad never in his life spoken a harsh word to his child now poured forthsuch a storm of anger, and sarcasm, and bitter reproach, as might havemade even an uninterested by-stander tremble. 

Had Erica made any appeal, had she even begun to cry, his chivalry wouldhave been touched; he would have recognized her weakness, and regainedhis self control. But she was not weak, she was strong she was his otherself gone over to the opposite side; that was what almost maddened him. The torrent bore down upon her, and she spoke not a word, but justsat still and endured. Only, as the words grew more bitter and morewounding, her lips grew white, her hands were locked more tightlytogether. At last it ended. 

"You have cheated yourself into this belief, " said Raeburn, "you havegiven me the most bitter grief and disappointment of my whole life. Haveyou anything else you wish to say to me?"

"Nothing, " replied Erica, not daring to venture more; for, if she hadtried to speak, she knew she must have burst into tears. 

But there was as much pain expressed in her voice as she spoke that oneword as there had been in all her father's outburst. It appealed tohim at once. He said no more, but stepped out of the French window, andbegan to pace to an fro under the veranda. 

Erica did not stir; she was like one crushed. Sad and harassed asher life had been, it yet seemed to her that she had never known suchindescribably bitter pain. The outside world looked bright and sunshiny;she could see the waves breaking on the shore, while beyond, sailingout into the wide expanse was a brown-sailed fishing boat. Every nowand then her vision was interrupted by a tall, dark figure pacing toand fro; every now and then the sunlight glinted on snow-white hair, andthen a fresh stab of pain awoke in her heart. 

The brown-sailed fishing boat dwindled into a tiny dark spot on thehorizon, the sea tossed and foamed and sparked in the sunshine. Ericaturned away; she could not bear to look at it, for just now it seemed toher merely the type of the terrible separation which had arisen betweenherself and her father. She felt as if she were being borne away in thelittle fishing boat, while he was left on the land, and the distancebetween them slowly widened and widened. 

All through that grievous conversation she had held in her hand a littlebit of mignonette. She had held it unconsciously; it was witheredand drooping, its sweetness seemed to her now sickly and hateful. Sheidentified it with her pain, and years after the smell of mignonette wasintolerable to her. She would have thrown it away, but remembered thather father had given it her. And then, with the recollection of herbirthday gift, came the realization of all the long years of unbrokenand perfect love, so rudely interrupted today. Was it always to be likethis? Must they drift further and further apart?

Her heart was almost breaking; she had endured to the very uttermost, when at length comfort came. The sword had only come to bring the higherpeace. No terrible sea of division could part those whom love could bindtogether. The peace of God stole once more into her heart. 

"How loud soe'er the world may roar, We know love will be conqueror. "

Meanwhile Raeburn paced to and fro in grievous pain The fact that hispain could scarcely perhaps have been comprehended by the generality ofpeople did not make it less real or less hard to bear. A really honestatheist, who is convinced that Christianity is false and misleading, suffers as much at the sight of what he considers a mischievous beliefas a Christian would suffer while watching a service in some heathentemple. Rather his pain would be greater, for his belief in the gradualprogress of his creed is shadowy and dim compared with the Christian'sconviction that the "Saviour of all men" exists. 

Once, some years before, a very able man, one of his most devotedfollowers, had "fallen back" into Christianity. That had been a bitterdisappointment; but that his own child whom he loved more than anythingin the world, should have forsaken him and gone over to the enemy, was agrief well-nigh intolerable. It was a grief he had never for one momentcontemplated. 

Could anything be more improbable than that Erica, carefully trained asshe had been, should relapse so strangely? Her whole life had been spentamong atheists; there was not a single objection to Christianity whichhad not been placed before her. She had read much, thought much; she hadworked indefatigably to aid the cause. Again and again she hadbraved personal insult and wounding injustice as an atheist. She hadvoluntarily gone into exile to help her father in his difficulties. Through the shameful injustice of a Christian, she had missed the lastyears of her mother's life, and had been absent from her death bed. She had borne on behalf of her father's cause a thousand irritatingprivations, a thousand harassing cares; she had been hard-working, andloyal, and devoted; and now all at once she had turned completely roundand placed herself in the opposing ranks!

Raeburn had all his life been fighting against desperate odds, and inthe conflict he had lost well-nigh everything. He had lost his home longago, he had lost his father's good will, he had lost the whole of hisinheritance; he had lost health, and strength, and reputation, andmoney; he had lost all the lesser comforts of life; and now he said tohimself that he was to lose his dearest treasure of all, his child. 

Bitter, hopeless, life-long division had arisen between them. Fortwenty-three years he had loved her as truly as ever father loved child, and this was his reward! A miserable sense of isolation arose in hisheart. Erica had been so much to him how could he live without her? Themuscles of his face quivered with emotion; he clinched his hands almostfiercely. 

Then he tortured himself by letting his thoughts wander back to thepast. That very day years ago, when he had first learned what fatherhoodmeant; the pride of watching his little girl as the years rolled on;the terrible anxiety of one long and dangerous illness she had passedthrough how well he remembered the time! They were very poor, couldafford no expensive luxuries; he had shared the nursing with his wife. One night he remembered toiling away with his pen while the sick childwas actually on his knee; he always fancied that the pamphlet he hadthen been at work on was more bitterly sarcastic than anything he hadever written. Then on once more into years of desperately hard work anddisappointingly small results, imbittered by persecution, crippled bypenalties and never-ending litigation; but always there had been thelittle child waiting for him at home, who by her baby-like freedom fromcare could make him smile when he was overwhelmed with anxiety. Howcould he ever have endured the bitter obloquy, the slanderous attacks, the countless indignities which had met him on all sides, if there hadnot been one little child who adored him, who followed him about like ashadow, who loved him and trusted him utterly?

Busy as his life had been, burdened as he had been for years with twiceas much work as he could get through, the child had never been crowdedout of his life. Even as a little thing of four years old, Ericahad been quite content to sit on the floor in his study by the hourtogether, quietly amusing herself by cutting old newspapers intofantastic shapes, or by drawing impossible cats and dogs and horses onthe margins. She had never disturbed him; she used to talk to herself inwhispers. 

"Are you happy, little one?" he used to ask from time to time, witha sort of passionate desire that he should enjoy her unconsciouschildhood, foreseeing care and trouble for her in the future. 

"Yes, very happy, " had been the invariable response; and generally Ericawould avail herself of the interruption to ask his opinion about somesquare-headed cat, with eyes askew and an astonishing number of legs, which she had just drawn. Then would come what she called a "bear'shug, " after which silence reigned again in the study, while Raeburnwould go on writing some argumentative pamphlet, hard and clear ascrystal, his heart warmed by the little child's love, the remains of asmile lingering about his lips at the recollection of the square-headedcat. 

And the years passed on, and every year deepened and strengthened theirlove. And by slow degrees he had watched the development of her mind;had gloried in her quick perception, had learned to come to her for asecond opinion every now and then; had felt proud of her common sense, her thoughtful judgments; had delighted in her enthusiastic, lovinghelp. All this was ended now. Strange that, just as he hoped most fromher, she should fail him! It was a repetition of his own early historyexactly reversed. His thoughts went back to his father's study inthe old Scottish parsonage. He remembered a long, fierce argument; heremembered a storm of abusive anger, and a furious dismissal from thehouse. The old pain came back to him vividly. 

"And she loves me fifty thousand times more than I ever loved myfather, " he reflected. "And, though I was not abusive, I was hard onher. And, however mistaken, she was very brave, very honest. Oh, I wascruel to her harsh, and hateful! My little child! My poor little child!It shall not it cannot divide us. I am hers, and she is mine nothing canever alter that. "

He turned and went back into the room. Never had he looked granderthan at that minute; this man who could hold thousands in breathlessattention this man who was more passionately loved by his friends, morepassionately hated by his enemies than almost any man in England! He wasjust the ideal father. 

Erica had not stirred, she was leaning back in her chair, looking verystill and white. He came close to her. 

"Little son Eric!" he said, with a whole world of love in his tone. 

She sprang up and wreathed her arms round his neck. 

By and by, they began to talk in low tones, to map out and piecetogether as well as they could the future life, which was inevitablysevered from the past by a deep gulf. They spoke of the work which theycould still share, of the interests they should still have in common. Itwas very sad work for Erica infinitely sadder for Raeburn; but they wereboth of them brave and noble souls, and they loved each other, and socould get above the sadness. One thing they both agreed upon. They wouldnever argue about their opinions. They would, as far as possible, avoidany allusion to the grave differences that lay between them. 

Late in the afternoon, a little group of fishermen and idlers stoodon the beach. They were looking out seaward with some "anxiety, for asudden wind had arisen, and there was what they called 'an ugly sea. '"

"I tell you it was madness to let 'em go alone on such a day, " said theold sailor with the telescope. 

"And I tell you that the old gentleman pulls as good an oar as any ofus, " retorted another man, in a blue jersey and a sou'wester. 

"Old gentleman, indeed!" broke in the coast guardsman. "Better saydevil at once! Why, man alive! Your old gentleman is Luke Raeburn, theatheist. "

"God forbid!" exclaimed the first speaker, lowering his telescope for amoment. "Why, he be mighty friendly to us fishermen. "

"Where be they now, gaffer? D'ye see them?" asked a keen-looking lad ofseventeen. 

"Ay, there they be! There they be! God have mercy on 'em! They'll beswamped sure as fate!"

The coast guardsman, with provoked sang-froid and indifference, began tosing:

"For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone alo-o-ft. "

And then breaking off into a sort of recitative. 

"Which is exactly the opposite quarter to what Luke Raeburn's soul willgo, I guess. "

"Blowed if I wouldn't pull an oar to save a mate, if I were so mightysure he was going to the devil!" observed a weather-beaten seaman, withgold earrings and a good deal of tattooing on his brawny arms. 

"Would you now!" said the coast guardsman, with a superior and sardonicsmile. "Well, in my 'umble opinion, drowning's too good for him. "

With which humane utterance, the coast guardsman walked off, singing ofTom who

 "Never from his word departed, Whose heart was kind and soft. "

"Well, I, for one, will lend a hand to help them. Now then, mates! Whichof you is going to help to cheat the devil of his due?" said the manwith the earrings. 

Three men proffered their services, but the old seaman with thetelescope checked them. 

"Bide a bit, mates, bide a bit; I'm not sure you've a call to go. " Hewiped the glasses of his telescope with a red handkerchief, and thenlooked out seaward once more. 

In the meantime, while their fate was being discussed on the shore, Raeburn and Erica were face to face with death. They were a long wayfrom land before the wind had sprung up so strongly. Raeburn, who in hisyoung days had been at once the pride and anxiety of the fishermen roundhis Scottish home, and noted for his readiness and daring, had now lostthe freshness of his experience, and had grown forgetful of weathertokens. The danger was upon them before he had even thought of it. Thestrong wind blowing upon them, the delicious salt freshness, eventhe brisk motion, had been such a relief to them after the pain andexcitement of the morning. But all at once they began to realize thattheir peril was great. Their little boat tossed so fearfully that Ericahad to cling to the seat for safety; one moment they were down in thehollow of a deep green wave, the next they would be tossed up upon itscrest as though their boat had been a mere cockle shell. 

"I'm afraid we've made a mistake, Eric, " said Raeburn. "I ought to haveseen this storm coming up. "

"What?" cried Erica, for the dashing of the waves made the end of thesentence inaudible. 

He looked across the boat at her, and an almost paralyzing dread filledhis heart. For himself he could be brave, for himself death had noterrors but for his child!

A horrible vision rose before him. He saw her lying stiff and cold, with glazed eyes and drenched hair. Was there to be a yet more terribleseparation between them? Was death to snatch her from him? Ah, no thatshould never be! They would at least go down together. 

The vision faded; he saw once more the fair, eager face, no longerpallid, but flushed with excitement, the brave eyes clear and bright, but somewhat anxious. The consciousness that everything depended on himhelped him to rise above that overmastering horror. He was once more hisstrongest self. 

The rudder had been left on the beach, and it was only possible to steerby the oars. He dismissed even the thought of Erica, and concentratedhis whole being on the difficult task before him. So grand did he lookin that tremendous endeavor that Erica almost forgot her anxiety; therewas something so forceful in his whole aspect that she could not beafraid. Her heart beat quickly indeed, but the consciousness of dangerwas stimulating. 

Yet the waves grew more and more furious, rolling, curling, dashing upin angry, white foam "raging horribly. " At length came one which brokeright over the little boat, blinding and drenching its occupants. 

"Another like that will do for us, " Said Raeburn, in a quiet voice. 

The boat was half full of water. Erica began to bale out with herfather's hat, and each knew from the other's face that their plight washopeless. 

Raeburn had faced death many times. He had faced it more than once on asick bed, he had faced it surrounded by yelling and furious mobs, but hehad never faced it side by side with his child. Again he looked at theangry gray-green waves, at the wreaths of curling white foam, again thatawful vision rose before him, and, brave man as he was, he shuddered. 

Life was sweet even though he was harassed, persecuted, libeled. Lifewas sweet even though his child had deserted his cause, even though shehad "cheated herself into a belief. " Life was infinitely worthliving, mere existence an exquisite joy, blank nothingness a hideousalternative. 

"Bale out!" he cried, despair in his eyes, but a curve of resolutenessabout his lips. 

A few more strokes warily pulled, another huge wave sweeping along, rearing itself up, dashing down upon them. The boat reeled andstaggered. To struggle longer was useless. Raeburn threw his oarsinboard, caught hold of Erica, and held her fast. When they could seeonce more, they found the boat quite three parts full. 

"Child!" he said, "child!" But nothing more would come. For once in hislife words failed him; the orator was speechless. Was it a minute or aneternity that he waited there through that awful pause waited with hisarm round Erica, feeling the beating of her heart, the heart which mustsoon cease beating forever, feeling her warm breath on his cheek alas!How few more breaths would she draw! How soon would the cold water graveclose over all that he--

His thoughts were abruptly checked. That eternal minute of waiting wasover. It was coming death was coming riding along with mocking scornon the crest of a giant wave. Higher and higher rose the towering, sea-green wall, mockingly it rushed forward, remorselessly swooped downupon them! This time the boat was completely swamped. 

"I will at least die fighting!" thought Raeburn, a despairing, defiantcourage inspiring him with almost superhuman strength. 

"Trust to me!" he cried. "Don't struggle!" And Erica who would naturallyhave fallen into that frantic and vain convulsion which seizes mostpeople when they find themselves in peril of drowning, by a supremeeffort of will made no struggle at all, but only clung to her father. 

Raeburn was a very strong man, and an expert swimmer, but it was afearful sea. They were dashed hither and thither, they were buffeted, and choked, and blinded, but never once did he lose his presence ofmind. Every now and then he even shouted out a few words to Erica. Howstrange his voice sounded in that chaos, in that raging symphony ofwinds and waves. 

"Tell me when you can't hold any longer, " he cried. 

"I can't leave go, " returned Erica. 

And even then, in that desperate minute, they both felt a momentarythrill of amusement. The fact was, that her effort of will had been sogreat when she had obeyed him, and clung with all her might to him, thatnow the muscles of her hands absolutely would not relax their hold. 

It seemed endless! Over the cold green and white of the waves Raeburnseemed to see his whole life stretched out before him, in a seriesof vivid pictures. All the long struggles, all the desperate fightswreathed themselves out in visions round this supreme death struggle. And always there was the consciousness that he was toiling for Erica'slife, struggling, agonizing, straining every fiber of his being to saveher. 

But what was this paralyzing cold creeping over his limbs? What thispressure at his heart? This dimness of his eyes? Oh! Was his strengthfailing him? Was the last hope, indeed, gone? Panting, he struggled on. 

"I will do thirty more strokes!" he said to himself. And he did them. 

"I will do ten more!"

And he forced himself to keep on. 

"Ten more!"

He was gasping now. Erica's weight seemed to be dragging him down, down, into nothingness. 

Six strokes painfully made! Seven! After all nothingness would meanrest. Eight! No pain to either, since they were together. Nine! Heshould live on in the hearts of his people. Ten! Agony of failure! Hewas beaten at last!

What followed they neither of them knew, only there was a shout, anagony of sinking, a vision of a dark form and a something solid whichthey grasped convulsively. 

When Erica came to herself they were by no means out of danger, butthere was something between them and the angry sea. She was lying downat the bottom of a boat in close proximity to some silvery-skinnedfishes, and her father was holding her hand. 

Wildly they tossed for what seemed to her a very long time; but atlength fresh voices were heard, the keel grated on the shore, she feltherself lifted up and carried on to the beach. Then, with an effort, she stood up once more, trembling and exhausted, but conscious that mereexistence was rapture. 

Raeburn paused to reward and thank the men who had rescued them in hismost genial manner, and Erica's happiness would have been complete hadnot the coast guardsman stepped up in an insolent and officious way, andobserved:

"It is a pity, Mr. Luke Raeburn, that you don't bring yourself to offerthanks to God almighty!"

"Sir, " replied Raeburn, "when I ask your opinion of my personal andprivate matters, it will be fitting that you should speak not before!"

The man looked annihilated, and turned away. 

Raeburn grasped the rough hands of his helpers and well-wishers, gavehis arm to Erica, and led her up the steep beach. 

Later on in the evening they sat over the fire, and talked over theiradventure. June though it was, they had both been thoroughly chilled. 

"What did you think of when we were in the water?' asked Erica. 

"I made a deep calculation, " said Raeburn, smiling, "and found that thesale of the plant and of all my books would about clear off the last ofthe debts, and that I should die free. After that I thought of Cicero'scase of the two wise men struggling in the sea with one plank to rescuethem sufficient only for one. They were to decide which of their liveswas most useful to the republic, and the least useful man was to dropdown quietly into the deep. It struck me that you and I should hardlycome to such a calculation. I think we would have gone down together, little one! What did you think of?"

But Erica's thoughts could not so easily be put into words. 

"For one thing, " she said, "I thought we should never be divided anymore. "

She sighed a little; for, after all, the death they had so narrowlyescaped would have been so infinitely easier than the life which laybefore her. 

"Clearly we are inseparable!" said Raeburn. "In that sense, little sonEric, we can still say, 'We fear nae foe!'"

Perhaps the gentle words, and the sadness which he could not entirelybanish from his tone, moved Erica almost more than his passionateutterances in the morning. 

The day was no bad miniature of her whole life. Very sad, very happy, full of danger, conflict and strife, warmed by outside sympathy, woundedby outside insolence. 

CHAPTER XXI. What it Involved

 Stronger than steel Is the sword of the spirit; Swifter than arrows The life of the truth is; Greater than anger Is love, and subdueth. Longfellow

The two or three days at Codrington lengthened out into a week, for bothRaeburn and Erica felt a good deal exhausted after the eventful Monday. Raeburn, anxious to spare her as much as possible, himself wrote to Mrs. Craigie, and told her of Erica's change of views. 

"It is a great grief, " he wrote, "and she will be a serious loss to ourcause, but I am determined that we will not enact over again the courseof action which drove both you and me from home. Odd! That she shouldjust reverse our story! Anyhow, you and I, Jean, have been too muchpersecuted to turn into persecutors. The child is as much in earnest forher delusion as we for our truth. Argument and remonstrance will do nogood, and you must understand, and make Tom understand, that I'll nothave her bullied. Don't think that I am trying to make her mistaken wayall easy for her. She won't find it easy. She will have a miserable timeof it with our own set, and how many Christians, do you imagine, willhold out a hand to Luke Raeburn's daughter, even though her views havechanged? Maybe half a dozen! Not more, I fancy, unless she renounced uswith atheism, and that she never will do! She will be between two fires, and I believe between the two she will be worried to death in a yearunless we can keep the peace at home. I don't blame Osmond for this, though at first I did suspect it was his doing; but this has been nocram-work. Erica has honestly faced the questions herself, and hashonestly arrived at this mistaken conclusion. Osmond's kindness andgenerosity of course influenced her, but for the rest they have only hadthe free discussions of which from the first I approved. Years ago hesaid to me plainly, 'What if she should see reasons to change her mind?'I scouted the notion then, it seemed and still seems almost INCREDIBLE. He has, you see, acted quite honorably. It is Erica's own doing. Iremember telling him that our name of freethinkers was a reality, andso it shall still be! She shall be free to think the untrue is true;she shall be free to confess herself a Christian before the whole world, though it deal me the hardest of blows. "

This letter soon spread the news. Aunt Jean was too much vexed and notdeeply grieved enough to keep silence. Vexation finds some relief intalking, deep grief as a rule prefers not to speak. Tom, in his odd way, felt the defection of his favorite cousin as much as anybody, exceptRaeburn himself. They had been play-fellows, they had always been likebrother and sister together, and he was astounded to think that Erica, of all people in the world, should have deserted the cause. The letterhad come by one of the evening posts. He went out and paced up and downthe square in the soft midsummer twilight, trying to realize the factsof the case. Presently he heard rapid steps behind him; no one walkedat that pace excepting Brian, and Tom was quite prepared to feel an armlink itself within his. 

"Hallo, old fellow!" exclaimed Brian. "Moonlight meditations?"

"Where did you drop from?" said Tom, evasively. 

"Broken leg, round the corner a public-house row. What brutes men are!"exclaimed the young doctor, hotly. 

"Disappointing world altogether, " said Tom with a sigh. "What do youthink we have just heard about Erica?"

Brian's heart almost stopped beating; he hardly knew what he feared. 

"How can I tell?" he answered, hoarsely. "No bad news, I hope?"

"She's gone and turned Christian, " said Tom, in a tone of deep disgust. 

Brian started. 

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, under his breath. 

"Confound it!" cried Tom. "I'd forgot you'd be triumphant. Good night, "and he marched off in high dudgeon. 

Brian did not even miss him. How could he at such a time? The weightof years had been lifted off his soul. A consuming happiness tookpossession of him; his whole being was a thanksgiving. By and by hewent home, found his father in the study, and was about to speak, whenCharles Osmond put an open letter into his hand. While Raeburn hadwritten to his sister, Erica had written to her "prophet" a sad, happy, quaint letter exactly like herself. Its straightforward simplicitybrought the tears to Brian's eyes. 

"It will be a fearful life for her now!" he exclaimed. "She will neverbe able to endure it. Father, now at last I may surely speak to her. "

He spoke very eagerly. Charles Osmond looked grave. 

"My dear old fellow, of course you must do as you think best, " hereplied, after a minute's pause; "but I doubt if it is wise just now. "

"Why, it is the very time of all others when she might be glad of me, "said Brian. 

"But can't you see, " returned his father, "that Erica is the last girlin the world to marry a man because she was unhappy, or because she hadgot a difficult bit of life in front of her? Of course, if you reallythink she cares for you, it is different; but--"

"She does not care for me, " said Brian quickly; "but in time I think shewould. I think I could make her happy. "

"Yes, I think you could, but I fancy you will make shipwreck of yourhopes if you speak to her now. Have patience. "

"I am sick of patience!" cried Brian desperately. "Have I not beenpatient for nearly seven years? For what would you have me wait? Am I towait till, between our injustice to secularists and their injustice toChristians, she is half badgered out of life? If she could but love me, if she would marry me now, I could save her from what must be a life ofmisery. "

"If I could but get you to see it from what I am convinced is Erica'spoint of view!" exclaimed Charles Osmond. "Forget for a minute that youare her knight and champion, and try to see things as she sees them. Let us try to reverse things. Just imagine for a minute that you are thechild of some leading man, the head and chief of a party or associationwe'll say that you are the child of an Archbishop of Canterbury. You arecarefully educated, you become a zealous worker, you enter into all yourfather's interests, you are able to help him in a thousand ways. But, by slow degrees, we will say that you perceive a want in the system inwhich you have been educated, and, after many years of careful studyand thought, you are obliged to reject your former beliefs and to acceptthat other system which shall most recommend itself to you. We willsuppose for the sake of analogy that you become a secularist. Knowingthat your change of views will be a terrible grief to your father thearchbishop, it takes your whole strength to make your confession, andyou not only feel your father's personal pain, but you feel that hispain will be increased by his public position. To make it worse, too, wemust suppose that a number of people calling themselves atheists, andin the name of atheism, have at intervals for the last thirty years beenannoying and insulting your father, that in withstanding their attackshe has often received bodily injury, and that the atheists have so oftendriven him into the law courts that he has been pretty nearly beggared. All his privations you have shared for instance, you went with him andlived for years in a poky little lodging, and denied yourself everysingle luxury. But now you have, in spite of all these persecutionscarried on in the name of secularism, learned to see that the highestform of secularism is true. The archbishop feels this terribly. However, being a very loving father, he wisely refuses to indulge in perpetualcontroversy with his child. You agree still to live together, and eachtry with all your might to find all the possible points of union stillleft you. Probably, if you are such a child as I imagine, you love yourfather ten times more than you did before. Then just as you have made upyour mind to try to be more to him, when all you care about in life isto comfort and help him, and when your heart is much occupied with yournew opinions, a friend of yours a secularist comes to you, and says: 'Amiserable life lies before you. The atheists will never thoroughlytake up with you while you live with your father the archbishop, andof course it is wretched for you to be surrounded by those of anothercreed. Come with me. I love you I will make you happy, and save you frompersecution. "

In spite of himself Brian had smiled many times at this putting of anArchbishop of Canterbury into the position of Luke Raeburn. But theconclusion arrived at seemed to him to admit of only one answer, andleft him very grave. 

"You may be right, " he said, very sadly. "But to stand still and watchher suffer--"

He broke off, unable to finish his sentence. 

Charles Osmond took it up. 

"To stand still and watch her suffer will be the terribly hard work ofa brave man who takes a true, deep view. To rush in with offers of helpwould be the work of an impetuous man who took a very superficial view. If Erica were selfish, I would say go and appeal to her selfishness, andmarry her at once; for selfishness will never do any good in GuilfordTerrace. But she is one of the most devoted women I know. Your appealwould be rejected. I believe she will feel herself in the right placethere, and, as long as that is the case, nothing will move her. "

"Father, " said Brian, rather desperately, "I would take your opinionbefore any other opinion in the world. You know her well far better thanI do. Tell me honestly do you think she could ever love me?"

"You have given me a hard task, " said Charles Osmond. "But you haveasked for my honest opinion, and you must have it. As long as her fatherlives I don't believe Erica will ever love a man well enough to marryhim. I remember, in my young days, a beautiful girl in our neighborhood, the belle of the whole county; and years went by, and she had countlessoffers, but she rejected them all. People used to remonstrate with her, and ask her how it was. 'Oh, ' she used to reply, 'that is very easilyexplained. . I never see a man I think equal to my own brothers!' Now, whatever faults Raeburn has, we may be sure Erica sees far less plainlythan we see, and nobody can deny that he is a grand fellow. When onebears in mind all that he has had against him, his nobility of characterseems to me marvelous. He puts us to shame. And that is why he seems tome the wholesome though powerful medicine for this nineteenth century ofours, with its great professions and its un-Christlike lives. "

"What is the use of patience what is the use of love, " exclaimed Brian, "if I am never to serve her?"

"Never! Who said so?" said his father smiling. "Why, you have beenserving her every blessed day since you first loved her. Is unspokenlove worth nothing? Are prayers useless? Is it of no service to let yourlight shine? But I see how it is. As a doctor, you look upon pain as theone great enemy to be fought with, to be bound down, to be conquered. You want to shield Erica from pain, which she can't be shielded from, ifshe is to go on growing. 

 "'Knowledge by suffering entereth!'

No one would so willingly indorse the truth of that as she herself. And it will be so to the end of the chapter. You can't shut her up in abeautiful casket, and keep her from all pain. If you could she would nolonger be the Erica you love. As for the rest, I may be wrong. She mayhave room for wifely love even now. I have only told you what I think. And whether she ever be your wife or not and from my heart I hope shemay be your love will in no case be wasted. Pure love can't be wasted;it's an impossibility. "

Brian sighed heavily, but made no answer. Presently he took up his hatand went out. He walked on and on without the faintest idea of time orplace, occupied only with the terrible struggle which was going onin his heart, which seemed only endurable with the help of rapid andmechanical exercise. When at length he came to himself, he was milesaway from home, right down at Shepherd's Bush, and he heard the churchclocks striking twelve. Then he turned back, and walked home morequietly, his resolution made. 

If he told Erica of his love, and she refused him now, he should notonly add to her troubles, but he should inevitably put an end to thecomfort of the close friendship which now existed between the twofamilies. He would keep silence. 

Erica and her father returned on the Saturday, and then began a mosttrying time. Tom seemed to shrink from her just as he had done at thetime of her mother's death. He was shy and vexed, too, and kept as muchout of her way as possible. Mrs. Craigie, on the contrary, could notleave her alone. In spite of her brother's words, she tried everypossible argument and remonstrance in the hope of reconvincing herniece. With the best intentions, she was often grossly unfair, andErica, with a naturally quick temper, and her Raeburn inheritanceof fluency and satire, found her patience sorely tried. Raeburn wasexcessively busy, and they saw very little of him; perhaps he thought itexpedient that Erica should fight her own battles, and fully realize theseriousness of the steps she had taken. 

"Have you thought, " urged Mrs. Craigie, as a last argument "have youthought what offense you will give to our whole party? What do you thinkthey will slay when they learn that you of all people have deserted thecause?"

The tears started to Erica's eyes, for naturally she did feel this agreat deal. But she answered bravely, and with a sort of ring in hervoice, which made Tom look up from his newspaper. 

"They will know that Luke Raeburn's daughter must be true to herconvictions at whatever cost. "

"Will you go on writing in the 'Idol'?" asked Tom, for the first timemaking an observation to her which was not altogether necessary. 

"No, " said Erica "how can I?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and made no further remark. 

"Then how do you mean to live? How else can you support yourself?" askedAunt Jean. 

"I don't know, " said Erica. "I must get some other work somewhere. "

But her heart failed her, though she spoke firmly. She knew that to findwork in London was no easy matter. 

"Offer yourself to the 'Church Chronicle, '" said Mrs. Craigiesarcastically, "or, better still, to the 'Watch Dog. ' They always make agood deal of capital out of a convert. "

Erica colored and had to bite her lip hard to keep back the quick retortwhich occurred to her all too naturally. 

By and by Mr. Masterman and another well-known secularist walked in. They both knew of Erica's defection. Mr. Masterman attacked her at oncein a sort of bantering way. 

"So Miss Raeburn, now I understand why some time ago you walked out inthe middle of my lecture one evening. "

And then followed a most irritating semi-serious remonstrance, inquestionable taste. Erica writhed under it. A flippant canvassing ofher most private and sacred thoughts was hard to bear, but she heldher ground, and, being not without a touch of her father's dignity, Mr. Masterman presently beat a retreat, not feeling quite so well satisfiedwith himself as usual. His companion did not allude directly to herchange of views, but treated her with a sort of pitying condescension, as if she had been a mild lunatic. 

There was some sort of committee being held in the study that evening. The next person to arrive was Professor Gosse and almost immediatelyafter came Mr. Harmston, a charming old man, whom Erica had known fromher childhood. They came in and had some coffee before going into thestudy. Mrs. Craigie talked to Mr. Harmston. Erica, looking her loveliestwaited on them. Tom watched them all philosophically from the hearthrug. 

"I am sorry to hear you have deserted your colors, " said the professor, looking more grave than she had ever seen him look before. Then, hisvoice softening a little as he looked at her, "I expect it all comes ofthat illness of yours. I believe religion is just an outgrowth of badhealth mens sana in corpore sano, you know. Never mind, you must stillcome to my workshop, and I shall see if science won't reconvert you. "

He moved away with his good-humored, shaggy-looking face, leaving Ericato old Mr. Harmston. 

"I am much grieved to hear this of you, Erica, " he said, lowering hisvoice, and bringing his gray head near to hers "as grieved as if youwere my own child. You will be a sore loss to us all. "

Erica felt this keenly, for she was very fond of the old man. 

"Do you think it does not hurt me to grieve you all?" she said, piteously. "But one must be honest. "

"Quite right, my dear, " said the old man, "but that does not make ourloss the less heavy. We had hoped great things of you, Erica. Itis grievous to me that you should have fallen back to the miserablesuperstitions against which your father has fought so bravely. "

"Come, Mr. Harmston, " said the professor; "we are late, I fancy. "

And before Erica could make any reply Mrs. Craigie and the two visitorshad adjourned to the committee room, leaving her alone with Tom. 

Now, for two or three days Erica had been enduring Tom's coldness andMrs. Craigie's unceasing remonstrances; all the afternoon she had beenhaving a long and painful discussion with her friend, Mrs. MacNaughton;this evening she had seen plainly enough what her position would befor the future among all her old acquaintances, and an aching sense ofisolation filled her heart. She was just going to run upstairs and yieldto her longing for darkness and quiet, when Tom called her back. Shecould not refuse to hear, for the coldness of her old playmate had madeher very sad, but she turned back rather reluctantly, for her eyes werebrimming with tears. 

"Don't go, " said Tom, quite in his natural voice. "Have you any coffeefor me, or did the old fogies finish it?"

Erica went back to the table and poured him out a cup of coffee, but herhand trembled, and, before she could prevent it, down splashed a greattear into the saucer. 

"Come!" said Tom, cheerfully. "Don't go and spoil my coffee with saltwater! All very well for David, in a penitential psalm, to drink tears, but in the nineteenth century, you know--"

Erica began to laugh at this, a fatal proceeding, for afterward came agreat sob, and the tears came down in good earnest. Philosophical Tomalways professed great contempt for tears, and he knew that Erica mustbe very much moved indeed to cry in his presence, or, indeed, to cryat all; for, as he expressed it: "It was not in her line. " But somehow, when for the first time he saw her cry, he did not feel contemptuous;instead, he began to call himself a "hard-hearted brute, " and anarrow-minded fool, and to feel miserable and out of conceit withhimself. 

"I say, Erica, don't cry, " he pleaded. "Don't, I say, I can't bear tosee you. I've been a cold-blooded wretch I'm awfully sorry!"

"It's very cowardly of me, " sobbed Erica. "But--but--" with a rush oftears, "you don't know how I love you all it's like being killed byinches. "

"You're not cowardly, " said Tom, warmly. "You've been brave and plucky;I only wish it were in a better cause. Look here, Erica, only stopcrying, and promise me that you'll not take this so dreadfully to heart. I'll stand by you I will, indeed, even though I hate your cause. Butit sha'n't come between us any longer, the hateful delusion has spoiledenough lives already. It sha'n't spoil ours. "

"Oh, don't!" cried Erica, wounded anew by this. 

"Well, " said Tom, gulping down his longing to inveigh againstChristianity, "it goes hard with me not to say a word against thereligion that has brought us all our misery, but for your sake I'll trynot when talking with you. Now let us begin again on the old footing. "

"Not quite on the old footing either, " said Erica, who had conquered hertears. "I love you a thousand times more, you dear old Tom. "

And Tom, who was made of sterling stuff, did from that day forward standby her through everything, and checked himself when harsh words aboutreligious matters rose to his lips, and tried his best to smooth whatcould not fail to be a rough bit of walking. 

The first meeting between Charles Osmond and Erica, after her returnfrom Codrington, did not come about till the morning after herconversation with Tom. They had each called on the other, but hadsomehow managed to miss. When at length Erica was shown into the study, connected in her mind with so many warm discussions, she found it empty. She sat down in the great arm chair by the window, wondering if she wereindeed the same Erica who had sat there years before, on the day whenher "prophet" had foretold her illness. What changes had come aboutsince then!

But her "Prophet" was unchanged, his brisk, "Well Erica!" was exactlywhat it had been when she had come to him in the days of her atheism. It had always been full of welcome and sympathy, and now the onlydifference was that a great happiness shone in his eyes as he cameforward with his soft, steady tread and took her hand in both his. 

They sat silent for awhile, then talked a little but reservedly, forboth felt that the subject which filled their thoughts was at once toosacred and too personal to be altogether put into words. Then by andby they began to discuss the practical consequences of the change, and especially the great difficulty as to Erica's means of supportingherself. 

"Could you not try teaching?" said Charles Osmond. 

"The market is already overstocked. "

"True, but I should think that your brains and certificates ought tosecure you work in spite of that. "

"I should like it in many ways, " said Erica, "but, you see, except atthe night school it is out of the question, and I could not live uponmy grant even if every one of my class passed the examination. For anyother sort of teaching who do you imagine would have the courage toemploy any one bearing the name of Raeburn? Why, I can't give an orderin a shop without being looked all over by the person who takes theaddress. No, governessing would be all very well if one might assume anom de guerre, but that would not do, you see. "

"You couldn't find work of that sort among your own set, I suppose?"

"Not now, " said Erica. "You see, naturally enough, I am very much out offavor with them all. "

"Falling between two stools, " said Charles Osmond, half to himself. "Butdon't lose heart, Erica: 'A stone that is fit for the wall will not beleft in the way;' there is work for you somewhere. By the way, I mightsee old Crutchley he knows all the literary folk, and might get you anintroduction to some one, at any rate. "

Just as Erica was leaving Brian came in from his rounds, and they met atthe door. Had he known her trouble and perplexity as to work, no poweron earth could have induced him to keep silence any longer; but he knewnothing. She looked a little pale, but that was natural enough, and inher eyes he could see a peace which he had never seen there before. Thendeep unselfish happiness filled his heart again, and Erica recognizedin his greeting a great deal more than an ordinary by-stander would haveseen. She went away feeling bettered by that handclasp. 

"That is a downright good man!" she thought to herself. "Perhaps by thetime he's fifty-five, he'll be almost equal to his father. "

CHAPTER XXII. An Editor

 Socrates How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite; for they never come to a man together, and yet he who pursues either of them is generally compelled to take the other. They are two, and yet they grow together out of one head or stem; and I can not help thinking that, if Aesop had noticed them, he would have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and when he could not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the reason why when one comes the other follows. Plato

That Erica should live any longer upon the money which her fatherchiefly made by the dissemination of views with which she disagreedwas clearly impossible, at least impossible to one of her sincere andthorough nature. But to find work was very difficult, indeed. After ananxious waiting and searching, she was one day surprised by receivingthrough Charles Osmond's friend, Mr. Crutchley, an introduction to theeditor of a well-known and widely read paper. Every one congratulatedher, but she could not feel very hopeful, it seemed too good to provetrue it was, in fact, so exactly the position which she would herselfhave chosen that it seemed unlikely it should ever really be hers. Stillof course she hoped, and arrangements were made for an interview withMr. Bircham, editor and part proprietor of the "Daily Review. "

Accordingly, one hot summer morning Erica dressed herself carefully, tried to look old and serious, and set off with Tom to the city. 

"I'll see you safe to the door of the lion's den, " said Tom as they madetheir way along the crowded streets. "I only wish I could be under thetable during the interview; I should like to see you doing the dignifiedjournalist. "

"I wouldn't have you for the world!" said Erica, laughing. Then, growinggrave again, "Oh, Tom! How I wish it were over! It's worse than threehundred visits to a dentist rolled into one. "

"Appalling prospect!" said Tom. "I can exactly picture what it willbe. BIRCHAM! Such a forbidding name for an editor. He'll be a sort ofeditorial Mr. Squeers; he'll talk in a loud, blustering way, and you'llfeel exactly like a journalistic Smike. "

"No, " said Erica, laughing. "He'll be a neat little dapper man, verysmooth and bland, and he'll talk patronizingly and raise my hopes, andthen, in a few days' time will send me a polite refusal. "

"Tell him at once that you hero-worship Sir Michael Cunningham, thestatesman of the age, the most renowned 'Sly Bacon!'"

"Tom, do be quiet!" said Erica. "I wish you had never thought of thathorrid name. "

"Horrid! I mean to make my fortune out of it. If you like, you can offerthe pun on reasonable terms to Mr. Bircham. "

"Why, this is Fleet Street! Doesn't it lead out of this?" said Erica, with an indescribable feeling in the back of her neck. "We must be quitenear. "

"Nearer than near, " said Tom. "Now then, left wheel! Here we are, yousee. It's a mercy that you turn pink with fright, not green like thesea-green Robespierre. Go in looking as pretty as that, and Mr. Squeerswill graciously accept your services, unless he's sand-blind. "

"What a tease you are. Do be quiet!" implored Erica. And then, in whatseemed to her an alarmingly short time she was actually left by herselfto beard the lion, and a clerk was assuring her that Mr. Bircham was in, and would she walk upstairs. 

For reasons best known to himself, the editor of the "Daily Review" hadhis private room at the very top of the house. A sedate clerk led theway up a dingy staircase, and Erica toiled after him, wondering how muchbreath she should have left by the time she reached the end. On one ofthe landings she caught sight of a sandy cat and felt a little reassuredat meeting such an every-day creature in this grim abode; she gave it afurtive stroke as she passed, and would have felt it a protection ifshe could have picked it up and taken it with her. That would have beenundignified, however, and by the time she reached the editor's roomonly a very observant person could have discovered in her frank, self-possessed manner any trace of nervousness. 

So different was Mr Bircham from their preconceived notions that shecould almost have laughed at the contrast. He was very tall and pompous, he wore a lank brown wig which looked as if it might come off at anymoment, he had little keen gray eyes which twinkled, and a broad mouthwhich shut very closely; whether it was grim or humorous she could notquite decide. He was sitting in a swivel chair, and the table strewnwith letters, and the desk with its pigeon holes crammed with papers, looked so natural and so like her father's that she began to feel areassuring sense of fellowship with this entire stranger. The inevitablepaste-pot and scissors, the piles of newspapers, the books of reference, all looked homelike to her. 

Mr. Bircham rose and bowed rather formally, motioned her to a seat, andswung round his own seat so that they faced one another. Then he scannedher from head to foot with the sort of appraising glance to which shewas only too well accustomed a glance which said as plainly as words:"Oh! So you are that atheist's daughter are you?"

But whatever impression Erica made upon Mr. Bircham, not a muscle ofhis face altered, and he began to discuss business in a most formal andbusiness-like way. Things did not seem very hopeful, and Erica began todoubt more and ore whether she had the smallest chance of acceptance. Something in the dry formal manner of the editor struck a chill to herheart. So much, so very much depended on this interview, and already theprospect seemed far from hopeful. 

"I should like to see some of your work, " observed Mr. Bircham. "Howlong have you been in the habit of writing in Mr. Raeburn's organ?"

"For the last five years, " said Erica. 

Mr. Bircham lifted his shaggy eyebrows at this, for Erica looked evenyounger than she really was. However, he made no comment, but took upthe end of a speaking tube. 

"Send up Jones with the file of 'Idol-Breakers' I ordered. "

Erica's color rose. Presently the answer from the lower regions appearedin the shape of the sedate clerk carrying a great bundle of last year's'Idol-Breakers. '

"Perhaps you will show me one or two of your average articles, " said Mr. Bircham, and, while Erica searched through the bundle of papers, he tookup one of the copies which she had put aside, and studied the outsidepage critically. "'The Idol-Breaker:' Advocate of Freethought andSecularism. Edited by Luke Raeburn. "

"They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three. "

Mr. Bircham put it down and began to watch her attentively. She wasabsorbed in her search, and was quite unconscious of his scrutiny. Evenhad she noticed him, she would not have understood what was passing inhis mind. His little gray eyes grew bright; then he pushed back his wigimpatiently; then he cleared his throat; finally he took snuff, sneezedviolently, and walked to the window. When he returned he was even moredry and formal than before. 

"These, I think, are fairly representative, " said Erica. "I have markedthem on the margin. "

He took the three or four copies she handed to him, and began to lookthrough one of the articles, muttering a sentence half aloud every nowand then, and making little ejaculations which might have been eitherapproval or disapproval. 

Finally the interview ended. Mr. Bircham put down the papers with a sighof utter weariness, Erica thought. 

"Well, Miss Raeburn, " he remarked, "I will look at one or two of yourother articles, and will communicate with you in a few days' time. "

Then he shook hands with her with frigid politeness, and in anotherminute she was slowly making her way down the dingy staircase. Partlyfrom the reaction after her excitement, partly from mental worry andphysical weariness, she felt by the time she was fairly out of theoffice as if she could hardly drag herself along. Her heart was likelead, blank loss of hope and weary anxiety as to the next effort to bemade were weighing her down. She was naturally high-spirited, but whenhigh-spirited people do get depressed, they go down to the very deepestdepths; and her interview with Mr. Bircham, by its dry cheerlessness, byits lack of human interest, had chilled her all through. If he hadeven made a remark on the weather, she thought she could have liked himbetter; if he had expressed an opinion on any subject, even if she haddisagreed with him, it would have been a relief; as it was, he seemed toher more like a hard steel pen dressed in broadcloth than a man. 

As to his last remark, that could only mean one thing. He did not liketo tell her to her face that she would not suit him, but, he wouldcommunicate with her in a few days, and say it comfortably on paper. 

She had never felt quite so desolate and forlorn and helpless as shefelt that day when she left the "Daily Review" office, and found herselfin the noise and bustle of Fleet Street. The midday sun blazed down uponher in all its strength; the pavements seemed to scorch her feet; theweary succession of hurrying, pushing, jostling passengers seemed to addto her sense of isolation. Presently a girl stopped her, and asked theway to Basinghall Street. She knew it well enough, but felt too utterlystupid to direct her. 

"You had better ask a policeman, " she replied, wearily. 

Then, recollecting that she had several commissions to do for herfather, besides a great deal to do at the stores, she braced herselfup, and tried to forget Mr. Bircham, and to devote her whole mind to thepetty details of shopping. 

The next evening she was in the study with her father when Tombrought in a bundle of letters. One of them was for Erica. She at oncerecognized Mr. Bircham's writing, and a new pang of disappointment shotthrough her, though she had really lost all hope on the previous day. This very speedy communication could only mean that his mind had beenpractically made up before. She began to think of her next chance, ofthe next quarter she must try, and slowly opened the unwelcome letter. But in a moment she had sprung to her feet in an ecstasy of happiness. 

"Oh, father! Oh, Tom! He will have me!"

Raeburn looked up from his correspondence, and together they read Mr. Bircham's letter. It was quite as business-like as he himself had beenat the interview. 

"Dear Madame, Having fully considered the matter, we are prepared tooffer you a place on our staff. The work required was explained to youyesterday. For this we offer a salary of 200 pounds per annum. Shouldyou signify your acceptance of these terms, we will send you our usualform of agreement. I am yours faithfully, Jacob Bircham. 

"To Miss Raeburn. "

"Commend me to people who don't raise one's expectations!" said Erica, rapturously. "Three cheers for my dear, stiff old editor!"

So that anxiety was over, and Erica was most thankful to have such aload taken off her mind. The comfort of it helped her through a verytrying summer. 

CHAPTER XXIII. Erica to the Rescue

 Isabel: I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit. 

 Duke: Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Measure for Measure

It was the first of September. Watering places were crowded withvisitors, destruction had begun among the partridges, and a certainportion of the hard-working community were taking their annual holiday. 

Raeburn, whose holidays were few and far between, had been toiling awayall through the summer months in town. This evening, as he sat in hisstifling little study, he had fallen into a blank fit of depression. Hecould neither work nor read. Strong as his nature was, it was notalways proof against this grim demon, which avenged itself on him forovertasking his brain, shortening his hours of sleep, and in other wayssacrificing himself to his work. Tonight, however, there was reason forhis depression; for while he sat fighting his demon at home, Erica hadgone to Charles Osmond's church it was the evening of her baptism. 

Of course it was the necessary sequence of the confession she had madea few months before, and Raeburn had long known that it was inevitable;but none the less did he this evening suffer more acutely than he hadyet suffered, realizing more fully his child's defection The privateconfession had startled, shocked, grieved him inexpressibly; but thepublic profession, with its sense of irrevocableness, filled his heartwith a grief for which he could find no single ray of comfort. 

Erica's brave endurance of all the trials and discomforts involved inher change of faith had impressed him not a little, and even when mosthurt and annoyed by her new views, he had always tried to shield her;but it had been a hard summer, and the loss of the home unity had triedhim sorely. 

Moreover, the comparative quiet of the last year was now ended. A newfoe had arisen in the person of a certain retired cheesemonger, who hadsworn war to the knife against the apostle of atheism. Unfortunately, Mr. Pogson's war was not undertaken in a Christ-like spirit; his zealwas fast changing into personal animosity, and he had avowed the hewould crush Raeburn, though it should cost him the whole of his fortune. This very day he had brought into action the mischievous and unfairblasphemy laws, and to everybody's amazement, had commenced aprosecution against Raeburn for a so-called "blasphemous libel" in oneof his recent pamphlets. An attack on the liberty of the press was toRaeburn what the sound of the trumpet is to the war horse. Yet, now thatthe first excitement was over, he had somehow sunk into a fit of blackdepression. How was it? Was his strength failing? Was he growing oldunfit for his work?

He was roused at length by a knock at his door. The servant enteredwith a number of letters. He turned them over mechanically until somehandwriting which reminded him of his mother's made him pause. Theletter bore the Greyshot postmark; it must be from his sister Isabel. Heopened it with some eagerness; there had been no communication betweenthem since the time of his wife's death, and though he had hoped thatthe correspondence once begun might have been continued, nothing morehad come of it. The letter proved short, and not altogether palatable. It began with rejoicings over Erica's change of views, the report ofwhich had reached Mrs. Fane-Smith. It went on to regret that he didnot share in the change. Raeburn's lip curled as he read. Then camea request that Erica might be allowed to visit her relations, and theletter ended with a kindly-meant but mistaken offer. 

"My husband and I both feel that there are many objections to Erica'sremaining in her present home. We should be much pleased if she wouldlive with us at any rate, until she has met with some situation whichwould provide her with a suitable and permanent residence. "

The offer was not intended to be insulting, but undoubtedly, to sucha father as Raeburn, it was a gross insult. His eyes flashed fire, andinvoluntarily he crushed the letter in his hand; then, a little ashamedof the passionate act, he forced himself deliberately to smooth it outagain, and, folding it accurately, put it in his pocket. A note forErica remained in the envelope; he placed it on the mantel piece, thenfell back in his chair again and thought. 

After all, might not the visit to Greyshot be a very good thing for her?Of course she would never dream of living with her aunt, would indeed beas angry at the proposal as he had been. But might not a visit of twoor three weeks open her eyes to her new position, and prove to her thatamong Christians such people as the Osmonds were only in the minority!He knew enough of society to be able to estimate the position it wouldaccord to Erica. He knew that her sensitiveness would be wounded againand again, that, that her honesty would be shocked, her belief in theso-called Christian world shaken. Might not all this be salutary? Andyet he did not like the thought; he could not bear sending her out aloneto fight her own battles, could not endure the consciousness that shewas bearing his reproach. Oh, why had this miserable, desolating changeever occurred? At this very moment she was making public profession ofa faith which could only place her in the most trying of positions;at this very moment she was pledging herself to a life of bondageand trouble; while he, standing aside, could see all the dangers anddifficulties of her future, and could do absolutely nothing!

It reminded him of one of the most horrible moments of his life. Walkingup Regent Street one afternoon, years ago, Erica, walking with Mrs. Craigie on the opposite side, had caught sight of him, and regardlessof the fourfold chain of carriages, had rushed across to him with thefearless daring of a six-year-old child, to whom the danger of horses'hoofs was a mere nothing when compared with the desire to get a walkwith her father. His heart beat quicker even now as he thought of theparalyzing dread of long ago, nor had Miss Erica ever been scolded forher loving rashness; in his relief he had been unable to do anythingbut clasp the little hand in his as though nothing should ever part themagain. 

But her loving disregard of all danger and difficulty was no longerinspired by love of him, but by love of what Raeburn considered a mythand a delusion. 

In that lay the real sting. He courage, her suffering, all seemed to himwasted, altogether on the wrong side. Once more black gloom fell uponhim. The room grew dusk then dark, but still he remained motionless. 

Again he was interrupted by a knock at his door. 

"Signor Civita wished to speak to him. "

He braced himself up for an interview with some stranger, and in walkeda foreigner wrapped in a long cloak, and looking exceedingly like astage brigand. 

He bowed, the brigand bowed too, and said something rapid andunintelligible in Italian. Then glanced at the door to see that itwas safely closed, he made a bound to the open window and shut itnoiselessly. Raeburn quietly reached down a loaded revolver which hungabout the mantel piece, and cocked it, whereupon the brigand fell into aparoxysm of laughter, and exclaimed in German:

"Why, my good friend! Do you not know me?"

"Haeberlein!" exclaimed Raeburn, in utter amazement, submitting to aGerman embrace. 

"Eric himself and no other!" returned the brigand. "Draw your curtainsand lock your door and you shall see me in the flesh. I am half stifledin this lordly wig. "

"Wait, " said Raeburn. "Be cautious. "

He left him for a minute, and Haeberlein heard him giving orders thatno one else was to be admitted that evening. Then he came back, quietlybolted the door, closed the shutters, and lighted the gas. In themeantime his friend threw off his cloak, removed the wig of long, darkhair, and the drooping mustache and shaggy eyebrows, revealing hisnatural face and form. Raeburn grasped his hand once more. 

"Now I feel that I've got you, Eric!" he exclaimed. "What lucky chancehas brought you so unexpectedly?"

"No lucky one!" said Haeberlein, with an expressive motion of theshoulders. "But of that anon; let me look at you, old fellow why you'reas white as a miller! Call yourself six-and-forty! You might pass for mygrandfather!"

Raeburn, who had a large reserve fund of humor, caught up his friend'sblack wig from the table and put it on above his own thick, white hair, showing plainly enough that in face and spirits he was as young asever. It was seven years since they had met, and they fell to talk ofreminiscences, and in the happiness of their meeting put off the moreserious matters which must be discussed before long. It was a good halfhour before Haeberlein alluded to the occasion of his present visit. 

"Bring actually in London, I couldn't resist looking in upon you, " hesaid, a cloud of care coming over his face. "I only hope it won't getyou into a scrape. I came over to try to avert this deplorable businessabout poor Kellner too late, I fear. And the worst of it is, I must haveblundered somehow for my coming leaked out, and they are on the watchfor me. If I get safe across to France tonight, I shall be lucky. "

"Incautious as ever, " sighed Raeburn. "And that Kellner richly deserveshis fate. Why should you meddle?"

"I was bound to, " said Haeberlein. "He did me many a good turn during myexile, and though he has made a grave mistake, yet--"

"Yet you must run your chivalrous head into a halter for his sake!"exclaimed Raeburn. "You were ever Quixote. I shall live to see youhanged yet. "

Haeberlein laughed. 

"No, I don't think you will, " he said, cheerfully. "I've had some badfalls, but I've always fallen on my feet. With a good cause, a man haslittle to fear. "

"If this WERE a good cause, " said Raeburn, with significant emphasis. 

"It was the least I could do, " said Haeberlein, with the chivalrousdisregard of self which was his chief characteristic. "I only fear thatmy coming here may involve you in it which Heaven forfend! I shouldnever forgive myself if I injured your reputation. "

Raeburn smiled rather bitterly. 

"You need not fear that. My reputation has long been at the mercy ofall the lying braggarts in the country. Men label me socialist oneday, individualist the next. I become communist or egotist, as is mostconvenient to the speaker and most damaging to myself. But there, " heexclaimed, regaining the tranquil serenity which characterized him, "whyshould I rail at the world when I might be talking to you? How is my oldfriend Hans?"

The sound of a key in the latch startled them. 

"It is only Erica, " said Raeburn. "I had forgotten she was out. "

"My pretty little namesake! I should like to see her. Is she still azealous little atheist?"

"No, she has become a Christian, " said Raeburn, speaking with someeffort. 

"So!" exclaimed Haeberlein, without further comment. He himself was ofno particular creed; he was just indifferent, and the zeal of his friendoften surprised him. 

Raeburn went out into the passage, drew Erica into the front sittingroom, and closed the door. 

"There is an old friend of yours in my study, " he said. "He wishes tosee you, but you must promise secrecy, for he is in danger. "

"Is it Herr Haeberlein?" asked Erica. 

"Yes, on one of his rash, kindly errands, but one of which I don'tapprove. However, his work is over, and we must try to get him safelyoff to France. Come in with me if you will, but I wanted to tell youabout it first, so that you should not be mixed up with this againstyour will, which would be unfair!"

"Would it?" said Erica, smiling, as she slipped her hand into his. 

Haeberlein had taken a newspaper out of his pocket, and was searchingfor something. The gas light fell on his clean-shaven face, revealinga sweet-tempered mouth, keen blue eyes, a broad German forehead, andclosely cropped iron-gray hair. Erica thought him scarcely altered sincetheir last meeting. He threw down his newspaper as she approached. 

"Well, my Herzblattchen!" he exclaimed, saluting her with a double kiss, "so you are not ashamed of your old friend? So, " holding her at arms'length and regarding her critically, "Potztausend! The English girls dobeat ours all to nothing. Well, my Liebchen, dost thou remember the daywhen thou carried the Casati dispatches in thy geography book under thevery nose of a spy? It was a brave deed that, and it saved a brave man'slife. "

Erica smiled and colored. "I was not so brave as I seemed, " she said. "My heart was beating so loud, I thought people must hear it. "

"Has thou never heard the saying of the first Napoleon, 'The bravest manis he who can conceal his fear?' I do not come under that category, forI never had fear never felt it. Thou wouldst not dream, Herzblattchen, that spies are at this moment dogging my steps while I jest here withthee?"

"Is that indeed true?" exclaimed Erica. 

They explained to her a little more of Haeberlein's errand and the riskhe ran; he alluded to his hopes that Raeburn might not be involved inany unpleasant consequences. Erica grew pale at the bare suggestion. 

"See, " exclaimed Haeberlein, "the little one cares more for yourreputation than you do yourself, my friend. See what it is to have adaughter who can be afraid for you, though she can not be afraid forherself! But, Liebchen, Thou must not blame me for coming to see him. Think! My best friend, and unseen for seven years!"

"It is worth a good deal of risk, " said Erica, brightly. But as theterror or having her father's name mentioned in connection with HerrKellner's once more returned to her, she added, pleadingly, "And youWILL be careful when you leave the house?"

"Yes, indeed, " said Haeberlein. "See what a disguise I have. "

He hastily donned the black wig, mustache and eyebrows, and the longItalian cloak. 

Erica looked at him critically. 

"Art thou not satisfied?" he asked. 

"Not a bit, " she said, promptly. "In London every one would turn to looktwice at such a dress as that, which is what you want to avoid. Besides, those eyebrows are so outrageous, so evidently false. "

She thought for a minute. 

"My brown Inverness, " suggested Raeburn. 

"Too thick for a summer night, " said Erica, "and" glancing from herfather to Haeberlein "too long to look natural. I think Tom's ulster andtraveling hat would be better. "

"Commend me to a woman when you want sound advice!" cried Haeberlein. 

Erica went to search Tom's room for the ulster, and in the meantimeHaeberlein showed his friend a paragraph in one of the evening paperswhich proved to Raeburn that the risk was indeed very great. They werediscussing things much more gravely when Erica returned. 

"The stations will be watched, " Haeberlein was saying. 

"What station do you go to?" asked Erica. 

"I thought of trying Cannon Street, " replied the German. 

"Because, " continued Erica, "I think you had better let me see you off. You will look like a young Englishman, and I shall do all the talking, so that you need not betray your accent. They would never dream of HerrHaeberlein laughing and talking with a young girl. "

"They would never dream that a young girl would be brave enough to runsuch a risk!" said Haeberlein. "No, my sweet Herzblattchen, I could notbring thee into danger. "

"There will be none for me, " said Erica, "and it may save you from eviland my father from suspicion. Father, if you will let me, it would bemore of a disguise than anything. "

"You might meet some one you know, " said Raeburn. 

"Very unlikely, " she replied. "And even if I did, what would it matter?I need not tell them anything, and Herr Haeberlein would get off all thesame. "

He saw that she was too pure and too unconventional to understand hisobjection, but his whole heart rebelled against the idea of letting herundertake the task, and it was only after much persuasion that she drewfrom him a reluctant consent. After all, it would be a great safeguardto Haeberlein, and Haeberlein was his dearest friend. For no one elsecould he have risked what was so precious to him. There was very littletime for discussion. The instant his permission was given, Erica ranupstairs to Tom's private den, lighted his gas stove, and made a cup ofchocolate, at the same time blackening a cork very carefully. In a fewminutes she returned to the study, carrying the chocolate and a plateof rusks, which she remembered were a particular weakness of HerrHaeberlein's. She found that in her absence the two had been discussingmatters again, for Haeberlein met her with another remonstrance. 

"Liebe Erica, " he began, "I yielded just now to thy generous proposal;but I think it will not do. For myself I can be rash, but not for thee. Thou art too frail and lovely, my little one, to get mixed up with thegrim realities of such a life as mine. "

She only laughed. "Why, I have been mixed up with them ever since I wasa baby!"

"True; but now it is different. The world might judge thee harshly, people might say things which would wound thee. "

"They say! 'LET them say!'" quoted Erica, smiling, "mens conscia rectiwill carry one through worse things than a little slander. No, no, youmust really let me have my own way. It is right, and there's an end ofit!"

Raeburn let things run their course; he agreed with Erica all thetime, though his heart impelled him to keep her at home. And as to EricHaeberlein, it would have needed a far stronger mind than that of thesweet-tempered, quixotic German to resist the generous help offered bysuch a lovely girl. 

There was no time to lose; the latest train for the Continent left at9:25, and before Haeberlein had adjusted his new disguise the clockstruck nine. Erica very carefully blackened his eyebrows and ruthlesslysheared the long black wig to an ordinary and unnoticeable length, and, when Tom's ulster and hat were added, the disguise was so perfect, andmade Haeberlein look so absurdly young, that Raeburn himself could notpossibly have recognized him. 

In past years Raeburn had often risked a great deal for his friend. Atone time his house had been watched day and night in consequence of hiswell-known friendship with the Republican Don Quixote. Unfortunately, therefore, it was only too probable that Haeberlein in risking his visitthis evening might have run into a trap. If he were being searched for, his friend's house would almost inevitably be watched. 

They exchanged farewells, not without some show of emotion on eachside, and just at the last Raeburn hastily bent down and kissed Erica'sforehead, at his heart a sickening sense of anxiety. She too wasanxious, but she was very happy to have found on the evening of herbaptism so unusual a service to render to her father, and, besides, theconsciousness of danger always raised her spirits. 

When, as they had half expected, they found the would-be natural-lookingdetective prowling up and down the cul-de-sac, it was no effort toher to begin at once a laughing account of a school examination whichCharles Osmond had told her about, and so naturally and brightly did shetalk that, though actually brushing past the spy under the full light ofthe street lamp. , she entirely disarmed suspicion. 

It was a horrible moment, however. Her heart beat wildly as they passedon, and every moment she thought she should hear quick steps behindthem. But nothing came of it, and in a few minutes they were walkingdown Southampton Row. When this was safely passed, she began to feelcomparatively at ease. Haeberlein thought they might take a cab. 

"Not a hansom, " she said, quickly, as he was on the point of hailingone. "You would be so much more exposed, you know!"

Haeberlein extolled her common sense, and they secured a four-wheelerand drove to Cannon Street. 

Talking now became more possible. Haeberlein leaned far back in thecorner, and spoke in low tones. 

"Thou has been my salvation, Erica, " he said, pressing her hand. "Thatfellow would never have let me pass in the Italian costume. Thou wertright as usual, it was theatrical how do you call stagey, is it not?

"I am a little troubled about your mouth, " said Erica, smiling, "themustache doesn't disguise it, and it looks so good-tempered and likeitself. Can't you feel severe just for half an hour?"

Haeberlein smiled his irresistibly sweet smile, and tried to comply withher wishes, but not very successfully. 

"I think, " said Erica, presently, "it will be the best way, if you don'tmind, for you just to stroll through the booking office while I takeyour ticket. I can meet you by the book stall and I will still talk forus both in case you betray your accent. "

"HERZBLATTCHEN!" exclaimed Haeberlein, "how shall I ever repay thee!Thou art a real canny little Scot! I only wish I had half thy cautionand forethought!"

"Don't look like that!" said Erica, laughing, as the benignantexpression once more came over his lips. "You really must try to turndown the corners! Your character is a silent, morose misanthrope. I amthe chatter box, pure and simple. "

They were both laughing when they drew near to the station, but a senseof the risk sobered Haeberlein, and Erica carried out her programme toperfection. It was rather a shock to her, indeed, to find a detectivekeenly inspecting all who went to the ticket office. He stood soclose to the pigeon hole that Erica doubted whether Herr Haeberlein'seyebrows, improved though they were, could possibly have escapeddetection. It required all her self command to prevent her color fromrising and her fingers from trembling as she received the ticketand change under that steady scrutiny. Then she passed out on to theplatform and found that Herr Haeberlein had been wise enough to buy thepaper which least sympathized with his views, and in a few minutes hewas safely disposed in the middle of a well-filled carriage. 

Erica took out her watch. There were still three minutes before thetrain started, three long, interminable minutes! She looked down theplatform, and her heart died within her; for, steadily advancing towardthem, she saw two men making careful search in every carriage. 

Herr Haeberlein was sitting with his back to the engine. Between himand the door sat a lady with a copy of the "Graphic" on her knee. Ifshe could only have been persuaded to read it, it might have made aneffectual screen. She tried to will her to take it up, but withoutsuccess. And still the detectives moved steadily forward with their keenscrutiny. 

Erica was in despair. Herr Haeberlein imagined himself safe now, andshe could not warn him without attracting the notice and rousing thesuspicion of the passengers. To complete her misery, she saw that hehad pushed his wig a little on one side, and through the black hair shecaught a glimpse of silver gray. 

Her heart beat so fast that it almost choked her, but still she forcedherself to talk and laugh, though every moment the danger drew nearer. At the very last moment an inspiration came to her. The detectives wereexamining the next carriage. 

"They are taking things in the most leisurely way tonight!" sheexclaimed. "I'm tired of waiting. I shall say goodbye to you, and gohome, I think. "

As she spoke, she opened the carriage door stepped in, anddemonstratively kissed her silent companion, much to the amusementof the passengers, who had been a good deal diverted by her racyconversation and the grumpy replies of the traveler. There was a smileon every face when one of the detectives looked in. He glanced to theother side of the carriage and saw a dark-haired young man in an ulster, and a pretty girl taking leave of her lover. Erica's face entirely hidHerr Haeberlien's from view and the man passed on with a shrug and asmile. She had contrived to readjust his wig, and with many last words, managed to spin out the remaining time, till at last the welcome signalof departure was given. 

Haeberlein's mouth relaxed into a benignant smile, as he nodded afarewell; then he discreetly composed himself into a sleeping posture, while Erica stood on the platform and waved her handkerchief. 

As she moved away the two detectives passed by her. 

"Not there! At any rate, " she heard one of them say. "Maybe they got himby the nine o'clock at Waterloo. "

"More likely trapped him in Guilford Terrace, " replied the other. 

Erica, shaking with suppressed laughter, saw the men leave the station;and then, springing into a cab, drove to a street in the neighborhood ofGuildford Square. 

Now that her work was over, she began to feel what a terrible strain ithad been. At first she lay back in the corner of the cab in a state ofdreamy peace, watching the gas-lighted streets, the hurrying passengers, with a comfortable sense of security and rest. But when she was set downnear Guilford Square, her courage, which in real danger had never failedher, suddenly ebbed away, and left her merely a young girl, with achingback and weary limbs, with a shrinking dislike of walking alone so latein the evening. Worse of all, her old childish panic had taken hold ofher once more; her knees trembled beneath her, as she remembered thatshe must pass the spy, who would assuredly still be keeping watch inGuilford Terrace. The dread of being secretly watched had always been atorment to her. Spies, sometimes real, sometimes imaginary, had been theterror of her childhood had taken the place of the ghost and bogy panicswhich assail children brought up in other creeds. 

The fact was, she had been living at very high pressure, and she was toomuch exhausted to conquer her unreasonable fright, which increased everymoment, until she was on the point of going to the Osmonds, willing toframe any excuse for so late a visit if only she could get one of themto walk home with her. Honesty and shame hindered her, however, With agreat effort of will she forced herself to pass the door, horrified tofind how nearly selfish cowardice had induced her to draw her friendsinto suspicion. Echoes of the hymns sung at her baptism, and at thesubsequent confirmation rang in her ears. She walked on more bravely. 

By the time she reached Guilford Terrace, she had herself quite in hand. And it was well; for, as she walked down the dreary little alley, a darkform emerged from the shadow, and suddenly confronted her. 

Any one might reasonably be a little startled by having a sudden pausemade before them by an unknown person on a dark night. Erica thoughtshe could exactly sympathize with a shying horse; she felt very muchinclined to swerve aside. Fortunately she betrayed no fear, only alittle surprise, as she lifted her head and looked the man full in theface, then moved on with quiet dignity. She felt him follow her tothe very door, and purposely she took out her latch key with greatdeliberation, and allowed him, if he pleased, to take a quiet surveyof the passage while she rubbed her boots on the mat; then, with adelicious sense of safety, she closed the door on the unfriendly gaze. . 

In the meantime, Raeburn had spent a miserably anxious evening, regretting his rash permission for Erica to go, regretting his ownenforced inaction, regretting his well-known and undisguisable face andform, almost regretting that his friend had visited him. Like Erica, he was only personally brave; he could not be brave for other people. Actual risk he would have enjoyed, but this anxious waiting was to himthe keenest torture. 

When at length the age-long hour had passed, and he heard the front doorclose, he started up with an exclamation of relief, and hurried out intothe passage. Erica greeted him with her brightest smile. 

"All safe, " she said, following him into the study. "He is well on hisway to Folkestone, and we have eluded three spies. "

Then, with a good deal of humor, she related the whole of the adventure, at the same time taking off her hat and gloves. 

"And you met no one you knew?" asked Raeburn. 

"Only the bishop who baptized and confirmed me this evening, and he ofcourse did not recognize me. "

As she spoke, she unbuttoned her ulster, disclosing beneath it her whiteserge dress. 

Raeburn sighed. Words and sight both reawakened a grief which he wouldfain have put from him. 

But Erica came and sat down on the hearth rug, and nestled up to himjust as usual. "I am so tired, padre mio!" she exclaimed. "But it hasbeen well worth it. "

Raeburn did not answer. She looked up in his face. 

"What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that few people had such an ending to their confirmationday, " said Raeburn. 

"I thank God for it, " said Erica. "Oh, father! There is so much, so verymuch we still have in common! And I am so glad this happened tonight ofall nights!"

He stroked her hair caressingly, but did not speak. 

CHAPTER XXIV. The New Relations

 For all men live and judge amiss Whose talents jump not just with his. Hudibras

 Comfortable moles, whom what they do Teaches the limit of the just and true. (And for such doing they require not eyes). Matthew Arnold

One bright afternoon about a week after this, Erica found herselfactually in the train, and on her way to Greyshot. At first she haddisliked the idea, but her father had evidently wished her to acceptthe invitation, and a hope of uniting again the two families would havestimulated her to a much more formidable undertaking than a visit of afew weeks to perfect strangers. She knew nothing of the proposal made toher father; her own letter had been most kind, and after all, though shedid not like the actual leaving home, she could not but look forward toa rest and change after the long summer months in town. Moreover, AuntJean had just returned, after a brief holiday, and the home atmospherefor the last two or three days had been very trying; she felt as ifa change would make her better able to bear the small daily frets andannoyances, and not unnaturally looked forward to the delicious rest ofunity. A Christian home ought to be delightful; she had never stayed inone, and had a high ideal. 

It was about six o'clock by the time she reached her journey's end, and, waiting for her on the platform, she had no difficulty in recognizingher aunt, a taller and fairer edition of Mrs. Craigie, who received herwith a kind, nervous diffident greeting, and seemed very anxious indeedabout her luggage, which was speedily brought to light by thefootman, and safely conveyed to the carriage. Erica, used to completeindependence, felt as if she were being transformed into a sort ofgrown-up baby, as she was relieved of her bag and umbrella and guideddown the steps, and assisted into the open landau, and carefully tuckedin with a carriage rug. 

"I hope you are not overtired with the journey?" inquired her aunt withan air of the kindest and most anxious solicitude. 

Accustomed to a really hard life in London, Erica almost laughed at theidea of being overtired by such a short journey. 

"Oh, I have enjoyed it, thank you, " she replied. "What a lovely line itis!"

"Is it?" said her aunt, a little surprised. "I didn't know it wasconsidered specially pretty, and I myself am never able to look much atthe scenery in traveling; it always gives me a headache. "

"What a pity!" said Erica. "It is such a treat, I think. In fact, itis the only way in which I have seen what people call scenery. I neverstayed in the country in my life. "

"My dear, is it possible, " exclaimed Mrs. Fane-Smith, in a horrifiedvoice. "Yet you do not look pale. Do you mean that you have spent yourwhole life in town?"

"I was at Paris for two years, " said Erica; "and twice I have spent alittle time at the sea-side; and, years and years ago, father was oncetaken ill at Southampton, and we went to him there that was almost likethe country I mean, one could get country walks. It was delightful;there was a splendid avenue, you know, and oh, such a common! It wasin the spring time. I shall never forget the yellow gorse and thehawthorns, and such beautiful velvety grass. "

Her enthusiasm pleased her aunt; moreover, it was a great relief to findthe unknown niece well-bred and companionable, and not overburdenedwith shyness. Already Mrs. Fane-Smith loved her, and felt that theinvitation, which she had given really from a strong sense of duty, waslikely to give her pleasure instead of discomfort. All the way home, while Erica admired the Greyshot streets, and asked questions about thevarious buildings, Mrs. Fane-Smith was rejoicing that so fair a "brand, "as she mentally expressed it, had been "plucked from the burning, "and resolving that she would adopt her as a second daughter, and, if possible, induce her to take their name and drop the notorious"Raeburn. " The relief was great, for on the way to the station, Mrs. Fane-Smith had been revolving the unpleasant thought in her mind that"really there was no knowing, Erica might be 'anything' since her motherwas a 'nobody. '"

At last they drew up before a large house in the most fashionable ofthe Greyshot squares, the windows and balconies of which were gay withflowers. 

"We shall find Rose at home, I expect, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith, leadingErica across a marble-paved hall, and even as she spoke a merry voicecame from the staircase, and down ran a fair-haired girl, with acharmingly eager and naive manner. 

Erica had guessed what she must be from the quaint and kindly meantletter which she had sent her years before, and though five years insociety had somewhat artificialized Rose, she still retained much ofher childishness and impetuous honesty. She slipped her arm into hercousin's, and took her off to her room at once. 

"I am so glad you have come!" she exclaimed. "I have been longing tosee you for years and years. Mamma has been talking so much about yourcleverness and my stupidity that just at the last I felt quite in afright lest you should be too dreadfully 'blue. ' I looked out of thedrawing room window for you, and if you had been very forbidding Ishould have received you in state in the drawing room, but you were socharmingly pretty that I was obliged to rush down headlong to meet you. "

Erica laughed and blushed, not being used to such broad compliments. Inthe meantime, they had traversed several flights of stairs, and Rose, opening a door, showed her into a spacious bedroom, most luxuriouslyfitted up. 

"This great big room for me!" exclaimed Erica. 

"It isn't at all ghostly, " said Rose, reassuringly. "Will you be afraidif you have a night light?"

Erica laughed at the idea of being afraid; she was merely amused tothink of herself established in such a palatial bedroom, such a contrastto the little book-lined room at home. There was a dainty little bookcase here, however, with some beautifully bound books, and in anotherminute she was delightedly scanning their titles, and, with a joyousexclamation, had caught up Browning's "Christmas-eve and Easter-day, "when a sound of dismay from her cousin made her laughingly put it downagain. 

"Oh, dear me!" said Rose, in a despairing voice, "I am afraid, afterall, you are dreadfully blue. Fancy snatching up a Browning like that!"

Erica began to unlock her trunk. 

"Do you want your things out?" said Rose. "I'll ring for Gemma; she'llunpack for you. "

"Oh, thank you, " said Erica, "I would much rather do it myself. "

"But it is nearly dinner time, we are dining early this evening, and youwill want Gemma to help you to dress. "

"Oh, no, " said Erica, laughing, "I never had a maid in my life. "

"How funny, " said Rose, "I shouldn't know what to do without one. Gemmadoes everything for me, at least everything that Elspeth will let her. "

"Is she Italian?" asked Erica. 

"Oh, no, her name is really Jemima; but that was quite too dreadfullyugly, you know, and she is such a pretty girl. "

She chattered on while Erica unpacked and put on her white serge, thenthey went down to the drawing room where Erica was introduced to herhost, a small elderly man, who looked as if the Indian sun had partiallyfrizzled him. He received her kindly, but with a sort of ceremoniousstiffness which made her feel less perfectly at her east than before, and after the usual remarks about the length of the journey, and thebeauty of the weather, he relapsed into silence, surveying every onefrom his arm chair as though he were passing mental judgments on everyfoolish or trifling remark uttered. In reality, he was taking in everyparticular about Erica. He looked at her broad forehead, overshadowed bythe thick smooth waves of short auburn hair, observed her golden-browneyes which were just now as clear as amber; noted the creamy whitenessand delicate coloring of her complexion, which indeed defied criticismeven the criticism of such a critical man as Mr. Fane-Smith. The nosewas perhaps a trifle too long, the chin too prominent, for ideal beauty, but greater regularity of feature could but have rendered less quaint, less powerful, and less attractive the strangely winsome face. It wasonly the mouth which he did not feel satisfied with it added characterto the face, but he somehow felt that it betokened a nature not easilyled, not so gentle and pliable as he could have wished. It shut so veryfirmly and the under lip was a little thinner and straighter than theother and receded a little from it, giving the impression that Erica hadborne much suffering, and had exercised great self-restraint. 

Mrs. Fane-Smith saw in her a sort of miniature and feminine edition ofthe Luke Raeburn whom she remembered eight-and-twenty years before intheir Scottish home. When Rose had gone into the back drawing room tofetch her crewels, she drew Erica toward her, and kissing her again, said in a low, almost frightened voice:

"You are very like what your father was. "

But just at that moment Mr. Fane-Smith asked some sudden question, andhis wife, starting and coloring, as though she had been detected inwrong-doing, hurriedly and nervously devoted herself to what seemedto Erica a distractingly round-about answer. By the time it was fairlyended, dinner was announced, and the strangeness of the atmosphere ofthis new home struck more and more upon Erica and chilled her a little. The massive grandeur of the old oak furniture, the huge oil paintings, which she wanted really to study, the great silver candelabra, even thetwo footmen and the solemn old butler seemed to oppress her. The luxurywas almost burdensome. It was a treat indeed to see and use beautifulglass and china, and pleasant to have beautiful fruit and flowers tolook at, but Erica was a bohemian and hated stiff ceremony Her heartfailed her when she thought of sitting down night after night to such aninterminable meal. Worse still, she had taken a dislike to her host. Herlikes and dislikes were always characterized by Highland intensity, andsomething in her aunt's husband seemed to rub her the wrong way. Mr. Fane-Smith was a retired Indian judge, a man much respected in thereligious world, and in his way a really good man; but undoubtedly hissympathies were narrow and his creed hard. Closely intwined with muchtrue and active Christianity, he had allowed to spring up a chokingovergrowth of hard criticism, of intolerance, of domineering dogmatism. He was one of those men who go about the world, trying, not to findpoints of union with all men, but ferreting out the most trifling pointsof divergence. He did this with the best intentions, no doubt, but asErica's whole view of life, and of Christian life in particular, was thedirect opposite of his, their natures inevitably jarred. 

She knew that it was foolish to expect every Christian household to beequal to the Osmonds', but nevertheless a bitter sense of disappointmentstole over her that evening. Where was the sense of restful unity whichshe had looked forward to? The new atmosphere felt strange, the neworder of life this luxurious easy life was hard to comprehend. 

To add to her dislike Mr. Fane-Smith was something of an epicure and hada most fastidious palate. Now, Erica's father thought scarcely anythingabout what he ate it was indeed upon record that he had once in a fitof absence dined upon a plate of scraps intended for Friskarina, while engaged in some scientific discussion with the professor. Mr. Fane-Smith, on the other hand, though convinced that the motto of allatheists was "Let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die, " criticized hisfood almost as severely as he criticized human beings. The mulligatawnywas not to his taste. The curry was too not. He was sure the jellywas made with that detestable stuff gelatine; he wished his wife wouldforbid the cook to use it if she had seen old horses being led into agelatine manufactory as he had seen, she would be more particular. 

Interspersed between these compliments was conversation which irritatedErica even more. It was chiefly about the sayings and doings of peoplewhom she did not know, and the doings of some clergyman in a neighboringtown seemed to receive severe censure, for Mr. Fane-Smith stigmatizedhim as "A most dangerous man, a Pelagian in disguise. " However, heseemed to be fond of labeling people with the names of old heresies, for, presently, when Rose said something about Mr. Farrant, her fatherreplied contemptuously:

Every one knows, my dear, that Mr. Farrant holds unorthodox views. Why, a few years ago he was an atheist, and now he's a mere Photinian. 

As no one but Mr. Fane-Smith had the faintest idea what a "Photinian"meant, the accusation could neither be understood nor refuted. Mrs. Fane-Smith looked very uncomfortable, fearing that her niece might feelhurt at the tone in which "He was an atheist, " had been spoken; andindeed Erica's color did rise. 

"Is that Mr. Farrant the member?" she asked. 

"Yes, " replied her aunt, apprehensively. "Do you know him?"

"Not personally, but I shall always honor him for the splendid speech hemade last year on religious toleration, " said Erica. 

Mr. Fane-Smith raised his eyebrows for the same speech had made him mostindignant. However, he began to realize that, before Erica could becomea patient recipient of his opinions, like his wife and daughter, he mustroot out the false ideas which evidently still clung to her. 

"Mr. Farrant is no doubt a reformed character now, " he admitted. "But heis far from orthodox; far from orthodox! At one time I am told thathe was one of the wildest young fellows in the neighborhood, no decentperson would speak to him, and though no doubt he means well, yet Icould never have confidence in such a man. "

"I have heard a good deal about him from my friends the Osmonds, " saidErica, stimulated as usual to side with the abused. "Mr. Osmond thinkshim the finest character he ever knew. "

"Is that the clergyman you told me of?" interposed Mrs. Fane-Smith, anxious to turn the conversation. 

But her husband threw in a question, too. 

"What, Charles Osmond, do you mean the author of 'Essays on ModernChristianity?"

"Yes, " replied Erica. 

"I don't know that he is much more orthodox than Mr. Farrant, " said Mr. Fane-Smith; "I consider that he has Noetian tendencies. "

Erica's color rose and her eyes flashed. 

"I do not know whether he is what is called orthodox or not, " she said;"but I do know that he is the most Christ-like man I ever met. "

Mr. Fane-Smith looked uncomfortable. He would name any number ofheresies and heretics, but, except at grace, it was against his senseof etiquette to speak the name of Christ at table. . Even Rose lookedsurprised, and Mrs. Fane-Smith colored, and at once made the move to go. 

On the plea of fetching some work, Erica escaped to her own room, andthere tried to cool her cheeks and her temper; but the idea of such aman as Mr. Fane-Smith sitting in judgment on such men as Mr. Farrant andCharles Osmond had thoroughly roused her, and she went down still in adangerous state a touch would make her anger blaze up. 

"Are you fond of knitting?" asked her aunt, making room for her on thesofa, and much relieved to find that her niece was not of the unfeminine"blue" order. 

"I don't really like any work, " said Erica, "but, of course, a certainamount must be done, and I like to knit my father's socks. "

Mr. Fane-Smith, who had just joined them, took note of this answer, andit seemed to surprise and displease him, though he made no remark. 

"Did he think that atheists didn't wear socks? Or that their daughterscouldn't knit?" thought Erica to herself, with a little resentful inwardlaugh. 

The fact was that Mr. Fane-Smith saw more and more plainly that theniece whom his wife was so anxious to adopt was by no means his idealof a convert. Of course he was really and honestly thankful that she hadadopted Christianity, but it chafed him sorely that she had not exactlyadopted his own views. He was a man absolutely convinced that there isbut one form of truth, and an exceedingly narrow form he made it, forall mankind. He Mr. Fane-Smith had exactly grasped the whole truth, and whoever swerved to the right or to the left, if only by a hair'sbreadth, was, he considered, in a dangerous and lamentable condition. Ah! He thought to himself, if only he had had from the beginning theopportunity of influencing Erica, instead of that dangerously broadCharles Osmond. It did not strike him that he HAD had the opportunityever since his return to England, but had entirely declined to admit anatheist to his house. Other men had labored, and he had entered into thefruit of their labors, and not finding it quite to his taste, fanciedthat he could have managed much better. 

There are few sadder things in the world than to see really good andwell-intentioned men fighting for what they consider the religious causewith the devil's weapons. Mr. Fane-Smith would have been dismayed ifany one could have shown him that all his life he had been strugglingto suppress unbelief by what was infinitely worse than sincere unbeliefdenunciation often untrue, always unjust, invariably uncharitable. Hewould have been almost broken-hearted could he ever have known thathis hard intolerance, his narrowness, his domineering injustice had notdeterred one soul from adopting the views he abhorred, but had, onthe contrary, done a great deal to drive into atheism those who werewavering. And this evening, even while lamenting that he had not beenable to train up his niece exactly in the opinions he himself held, hewas all the time trying her faith more severely than a whole regiment ofatheists could have tried it. 

The time passed heavily enough. When two people in the room are unhappyand uncomfortable, a sense of unrest generally falls upon the otheroccupants. Rose yawned, talked fitfully about the gayeties of the comingweek, worked half a leaf on an antimacassar, and sang three or foursilly little coquettish songs which somehow jarred on every one. 

Mrs. Fane-Smith, feeling anxious and harassed, afraid alike of vexingher husband and offending her niece, talked kindly and laboriously. Erica turned the heel of her sock and responded as well as she could, her sensitiveness recoiling almost as much from the labored andtherefore oppressive kindness, as from the irritating and narrow censurewhich Mr. Fane-Smith dealt out to the world. 

Family prayers followed. It was the first time she had ever beenpresent at such a household gathering, and the idea seemed to her a verybeautiful one. But the function proved so formal and lifeless that itchilled her more than anything. Yet her relations were so very kind toher personally that she blamed herself for feeling disappointed, andstruggled hard to pierce through the outer shell, which she knew onlyconcealed their real goodness. She knew, too, that she had herself toblame in part; her oversensitiveness, her quick temper, her want ofdeep insight had all had their share in making that evening such a blankfailure. 

Mrs. Fane-Smith went with her into her bedroom to see that she had allshe wanted. Though the September evening was mild, a fire blazed in thegrate, much to Erica's astonishment. Not on the most freezing of winternights had she ever enjoyed such a luxury. Her aunt explained that theroom looked north, and, besides, she thought a fire was cheerful andhome-like. 

"You are very kind, " said Erica, warmly; "but you know I mustn't let youspoil me, or I shall not be fit to go back to the home life, and I wantto go home much more fit for it. "

Something in the spontaneous warmth and confidence of this speechcheered Mrs. Fane-Smith. She wished above all things to win her niece'slove and confidence, and she wisely reserved her proposal as to thematter of a home for another time. It was necessary, however, thatshe should give Erica a hint as to the topics likely to irritate Mr. Fane-Smith. 

"I think, dear, " she began, "it would be as well if, when my husband andRose are present, you are careful not to speak of your father. You won'tmind my saying this; but I know it displeases my husband, and I thinkyou will understand that there are objections, society, you know, andpublic opinion; we must consult it a little. "

Mrs. Fane-Smith grew nervous and incoherent, threw her arms round herniece's neck, kissed her most affectionately, and wished her good night. 

When she left the room, Erica's repressed indignation blazed up. We fearit must be recorded that she fairly stamped with anger. 

Wounded in her tenderest part, indignant at the insult to her father, ashamed of her own want of control, miserably perplexed by her newsurroundings, it was long before she could compose herself. She pacedup and down the richly furnished room, struggling hard to conquer heranger. At length, by a happy impulse, she caught up her prayer book, checked her longing to walk rapidly to and fro, sat down on the Indianrug before the fire, and read the evening psalm. It happened to be thethirty-seventh. Nothing could have calmed her so effectually as itstender exhortation, its wonderful sympathy with human nature. "Fret notthyself, else shalt thou be moved to do evil. Put thou thy trust in theLord, and be doing good. Put thy trust in Him, and He will bring it topass. "

She closed the book, and sat musing, her anger quite passed away. 

All at once she recollected old Elspeth, the nurse. Her father hadcharged her with many messages to the faithful old servant, and so hadher aunt. She felt ashamed to think that she had been several hours inthe house without delivering them. Rose's room was close to hers. Shewent out, and knocked softly at the door. 

"I just came to see whether Elspeth was here, " she said, rather dismayedto find the candles out, and the room only lighted up by the red glowfrom the fire. 

Rose who had had no temper to conquer, was already in bed. "Still in yourdress!" she exclaimed. "I believe you've been at that Browning again. But did no one come to help you? I sent Gemma. "

"I didn't want help, thank you, " said Erica. "I only wanted to seeElspeth because I have a message for her. "

"How conscientious you are!" said Rose, laughing. "I always make a pointof forgetting messages when I go from home. Well, you will find Elspethin the little room on the next half landing, the work room. She was herenot two minutes ago. Good night! Breakfast is at nine, you know; andthey'll bring you a cup of tea when they call you. "

A little shyly, Erica made her way to the work room where Elspeth wastacking frilling into one of Rose's dresses. The old woman started upwith a quick exclamation when she appeared in the doorway. 

"May I come in?" said Erica, with all the charm of manner which she hadinherited from her father. "'Tis very late, but I didn't like to go tobed without seeing you. "

"I hope missie has everything she wants?" asked Elspeth, anxiously. 

"Yes, indeed!" said Erica. "All I want is to see you, and to give you myfather's love, to ask how you are. He and Aunt Jean have often told meabout you. You have not forgotten them?"

"Forgotten! No, indeed!" cried old Elspeth. "When I saw you at 'Takin'the book, ' and saw you so like your poor father, I could have cried. Youare Mr. Luke's bairn, and no mistake, my bonny lassie! Ah, I mind theday well when he came to my room the auld nursery in the parsonage, where I had reared him and told me that master had ordered him out ofthe house. I pray God I may never again see a face look as his lookedthen!"

Tears started to her eyes at the recollection. Erica threw her armsround her neck, and kissed her. 

"You love him still. I see you love him!" she exclaimed, all her feelingof isolation melting in the assurance of the old servant's sympathy. 

So, after all, Erica had a maid in attendance, for Elspeth insisted onseeing her to bed, and, since they talked all the time about the oldScotch days, she was well content to renounce her independence for alittle while. 

But, whether because of the flickering fire light, or because of thestrangeness of the great brass bedstead, with its silken hangings andmany-colored Indian rezai, Erica slept very little that night. Perhapsthe long talk about her father's early days had taken too great a holdof her. At any rate, she tossed about very restlessly in her luxuriousquarters, and when, for brief intervals, she slept, it was only to dreamof her father taking leave of his Scottish home, and always he bore thatflint-like face, that look of strong endurance and repressed passionwhich Elspeth had described, and which, in times of trouble andinjustice, Erica had learned to know so well. 

CHAPTER XXV. Lady Caroline's Dinner

 The blank of amaze of your haughty gaze, The cold surprise of patrician eyes. Lewis Morris

 But the paucity of Christians is astonishing, considering the number of them. Leigh Hunt. 

The irritation, or, at any rate, the novelty of the luxury in theFane-Smith's household wore off after Erica had spent a few days atGreyshot. She became accustomed to the great rooms, and being artisticby nature and the reverse by education, she began very much to enjoy thepictures, the charming variety of foreign treasures, and particularlyall the lovely things of Indian workmanship with which the drawing roomwas crowded. The long, formal meals she learned to endure. The absurdlylarge retinue of servants ceased to oppress her; she used to amuseherself by speculating as to the political views of the men-servants!while the luxury of a daily drive with her aunt she very muchappreciated. 

But, though the mere externals were soon familiar enough, she found thatevery day increased the difficulty she felt in becoming accustomed tothe atmosphere of this family. She had lived all her life with peoplewho were overwhelmed with work, and in a home where recreation was onlythe rare concession to actual health. Here recreation seemed to be thebusiness of life, while work for the public was merely tacked on as asort of ornamental fringe. 

Mr. Fane-Smith had, indeed, a few committee meetings to attend; Mrs. Fane-Smith visited her district once a fortnight, and distributedtracts, and kind words, and soup tickets, and blanket tickets, besidesthe most lavish gifts from her own purse. Rose, to please her mother, taught a class of little girls on Sunday afternoon that is to say, shedid NOT teach them, but she sat in a chair and heard them say collects, and enforced orderly behavior upon them, and read them a good littlestory book. But these were merely rather tiresome duties which came invery often as provoking interruptions to the great business of life, namely eating, drinking, dining out, giving dinners, or attendingthe endless succession of at-homes, dances, musical evenings, amateurtheatricals, by which Greyshot people tried to kill time. 

As to taking any intelligent interest in the political world, no oneseemed to dream of such a thing, except Mr. Fane-Smith, who read thepaper at breakfast, and hurled anathemas at all the statesmen whom Ericahad learned to love and revere. It taxed her patience to the utmost tosit through the daily diatribe against Sir Michael Cunningham, her heroof heroes. But even the violent opposition seemed preferable to the wantof interest shown by the others. Mrs. Fane-Smith had time to fritteraway at least half an hour after breakfast in the most desultoryconversation, the most fruitless discussions with Rose as to some detailof dress; but she always made the excuse that she "had no time" toread the papers, and amused Erica not a little by asking her husbandif "anything particular had been happening lately, " when they were juststarting for a dinner party. Out of his little rechauffe of the week'snews she probably extracted enough information to enable her to displaythat well-bred interest, that vague and superficial acquaintance withthe subject which will pass muster in society, and which probablyexplains alike the very vapid talk and the wildly false accusationswhich form the staple of ordinary conversation. 

Rose was even more perplexing. She was not only ignorant, but sheboasted of her ignorance. Again and again Erica heard her deprecate theintroduction of any public question. 

"Oh, don't begin to talk of that!" she would exclaim. "I know nothingabout it, and never mean to know anything. "

Or there would be an imploring appeal. 

"Why do you waste your time in talking politics when you have never toldme a word about so-and-so's wedding?"

She occasionally read the "Court Circular, " and was rather fond ofone or two of the "society" papers from which she used to glean choicelittle paragraphs of personal gossip. 

Once one of these papers gave Erica an uncomfortable experience. Theelders of the party being out for the evening, Rose and Erica had thedrawing room to themselves, and Erica was really enjoying the rarenovelty of talking with a girl of her own age. Rose, although the mostarrant little flirt, was fond, too, of her girl friends, and shereally liked Erica, and enjoyed the fun of initiating her into all themysteries and delights of society. 

"How did you get your name?" she asked, suddenly. "It is so pretty andso uncommon. "

"Oh, " said Erica, without thinking, "I was called after my father'sfriend, Eric Haeberlein. "

"Eric Haeberlein?" exclaimed Rose. "Why, I was reading something abouthim this afternoon. Here it is look!" And after searching the columns ofher favorite "society" paper, she pointed to the following paragraph:

"It is now known as a positive fact that the notorious Eric Haeberleinwas actually in London last week in connection with the disgracefulKellner business. ON DIT that he escaped detection through theinstrumentality of one of the fair sex, whose audacity outweighed hermodesty. "

Erica could hardly have restrained her indignation had not two realdangers drawn off her attention from her own wounded feelings. Herfather was there any hateful hint that he was mixed up with HerrKellner? She glanced anxiously down the page. No, at least thatfalsehood had not been promulgated. She breathed more freely, but therewas danger still, for Rose was watching her, and feminine curiosity ishard to baffle. 

"Did you know about it?" she asked. 

Erica did not reply for a moment, but read on, to gain time; then shethrew down the paper with an exclamation of disgust. 

"How can you read such stuff?"

"Yes, but is that the Eric Haeberlein you were named after? Did hereally come to London and escape?"

"There is only one Eric Haeberlein in the world that I know of, " saidErica. "But I think, Rose, I was wrong and foolish to mention him. Ican't tell you anything about him, and, even if I could, there is mypromise to Aunt Isabel. If I am not to talk to you about my father, Icertainly ought not to talk about his friends. "

Rose acquiesced, and never suspected any mystery. She chatted on happilyfor the rest of the evening, brought down a great collection of oldball-cards, and with a sort of loving recollection described each veryminutely, just as some old nurses have a way of doing with the funeralcards of their deceased friends. This paved the way for a spontaneousconfession that she really preferred Mr. Torn, the curate of St. Matthew's, to Captain Golightly, though people were so stupid, andwould say she was in love with him just because they flirted a littlesometimes. Rose had already imagined herself in love with at leasta dozen people, and was quite ready to discuss every one of herflirtations, but she was disappointed to find that her cousin was eithervery reserved on the subject, or else had nothing to say. 

Erica sat listening with a sort of wonder, not unmixed with disgust. Perhaps she might have shown her disapprobation had she not beenthankful to have the conversation diverted from the dangerous topic;besides, the cruel words were still rankling in her heart, and woven inwith Rose's chatter she heard continually, "whose audacity outweighedher modesty. " For the first time she fully understood why her fatherhad so reluctantly consented to her scheme; she began to feel the stingwhich lay beneath the words, the veiled "hints, " the implied evil, morewounding, more damaging than an outspoke lie. Now that she understoodthe ways of society better, she saw, too, that what had seemed to heran unquestionable duty would be regarded as a grave breach of customand etiquette. She began to question herself. Had she been right? Itmattered very little what the writer of a "society" paper said of her, if she had done the really right thing. What had she done? To saveher father's friend from danger, to save her father from unmeritedsuspicion, she had gone out late in the evening with a man considerablyover fifty, whom she had known from her babyhood. He had, it is true, been in the disguise of a young man. She had talked to him on theplatform much as she would have talked to Tom, and to save his almostcertain detection, had sprung into the carriage, thrown her arms roundhis neck, and kissed him. HAD audacity outweighed her modesty? Why, allthe time she had been thanking God for having allowed her to undertakethe difficult task for her father on that particular evening. She haddone it in the sight of God, and should she now make herself miserablebecause the world was wanting in that charity which "thinketh no evil?"No, she had been right of that she was certain. Nevertheless, sheunderstood well enough that society would condemn her action, and wouldwith a smile condone Rose's most outrageous flirtation. 

The first week in a new place always seems long, and Erica felt as ifshe had been away from home for months by the time it was over. Everyone had been very kind to her so far, but except when she was playinglawn-tennis she was somehow far from happy. , Her happiest moments werereally those which she spent in her own room before breakfast, writing;and the "Daily Review" owed some very lively articles to the Greyshotvisit. Beyond a sort of clan feeling for her aunt, and a real liking forRose who, in spite of her follies, was good-humored and very lovableshe had not yet found one point of union with her new relations. Evenpossible topics of conversation were hard to find. They cared nothingfor politics, they cared nothing for science, they were none of thembook lovers, and it was against their sense of etiquette to speak ofanything but the externals of religion. Worst of all, any allusion tohome matters, any mention of her father had to be avoided. Little wasleft but the mere gossip of the neighborhood, which, except as a socialstudy, could not interest Erica. 

Greyshot was an idle place; the church seemed asleep, a drowsyindifference hung about the richer inhabitants, while the honestworkers not unnaturally banded themself together against the sleepilyrespectable church-goers, and secularism and one or two other "isms"made rapid advances. Then sleepy orthodoxy lifted its drowsy head for aminute, noted the evil, and abused Mr. Raeburn and his fellow workers, lamenting in many-syllable words the depravity of the working classesand the rapid spread of infidelity. But nothing came of the lament; itnever seemed to strike them that they must act as well as talk, thatthey must renounce their useless, wasteful, un-Christian lives beforethey had even a right to lift up their voices against secularism, whichcertainly did in some measure meet the needs of the people. It neverseemed to strike them that THEY were the real promoters of infidelitythat they not only dishonored the name of Christ, but by theirinconsistent lives disgusted people with Christianity, and then refusedto have anything more to do with them. Luke Raeburn, if he pulled downwith the one hand, at any rate, tried hard to build up with the other;but the people of Greyshot caused in a great degree the ruin and downfall, and then exclaimed, "How shocking!" and turned their backs, thinking to shift their blame on to the secularist leaders. 

As far as society goes, they succeeded in thus shifting the blame; theworld laid it all on Luke Raeburn, he was a most convenient scapegoat, and so widely does conventional Christianity differ from the religionfounded by Christ it soon became among a certain set almost equivalentto a religious act to promulgate bits of personal scandal abouthim, flavored, of course, with wordy lamentations as to the views heentertained. Thus, under the name of defenders of religion, conventionalChristians managed to appear very proper and orthodox, and at the sametime to dispose comfortably of all their sense of responsibility. Therewas a meanness about their way of doing it which might have made thevery angels weep! Happily the judgments of society are not the judgmentsof God. 

One of the leaders of society was a certain Lady Caroline Kiteley; shewas a good-natured, hospitable creature, very anxious that every oneshould enjoy life, and a great favorite with all the young people, because she made much of them and gave delightful dances. The elders, too, liked her, and were not oblivious to the fact that she was thedaughter of an earl, and the widow of a distinguished general. Erica hadseen her more than once during her visit, and had been introduced to herby Mrs. Fane-Smith, as "my niece. "

Now it happened that Mr. And Mrs. Fane-Smith and Rose were to dine withLady Caroline the week after Erica's arrival. On the very day of thedinner party, however, Rose was laid up with a bad cold, and her motherwas obliged to write and make her excuses. Late in the afternoon therecame in reply one of Lady Caroline's impulsive notes. 

"Dear Mrs. Fane-Smith, Scold that silly daughter of yours for catchingcold; give her my love, and tell her that I was counting on her verymuch. Please bring your pretty niece instead. Yours sincerely, CarolineKiteley. "

Mrs. Fane-Smith was glad and sorry at the same time, and very muchperplexed. Such a peremptory but open-hearted invitation could not bedeclined, yet there were dangers in the acceptance. If Erica's nameshould transpire, it might be very awkward, but she had not broachedthe suggested change of name to her, and every day her courage dwindledevery day that resolute mouth frightened her more. She was quite awarethat Erica's steady, courageous honesty would unsparingly condemn allher small weaknesses and little expedients. 

Erica, when told of the invitation, was not particularly anxious to go, for she and Rose had been planning a cozy evening at home over a newnovel upon which their tastes really agreed. However, Rose assured herthat Lady Caroline's parties were always delightful, and hunted her offto dress at least an hour before there was any necessity. Rose was agreat authority on dress and, when her cousin returned, began to studyher attire critically. 

She wore a very simply made dress of moss-green velveteen, high to thethroat, and relieved by a deep falling collar of old point. Elspeth hadbrought her a spray of white banksia roses, but otherwise she wore noornament. Her style was very different from her cousin's; but Rose couldnot help approving of it, its severity suited Erica. 

"You look lovely!" she exclaimed. "Lady Caroline will quite lose herheart to you! I think you should have that dress cut low in front, though. It is a shame not to show such a pretty neck as you must have. "

"Oh, no!" said Erica, quickly; "father can't endure low dresses. "

"One can't always dress to please one's father, " said Rose. "For thematter of that, I believe papa doesn't like them; but I alwayswear them. You see it is more economical, one must dress much moreexpensively if one goes in for high dresses. A little display of neckand arms, and any old rag will look dressy and fashionable, and though Idon't care about economy, mamma does. "

"You don't have an allowance, then?"

"No; papa declared I ought to dress on eighty pounds a year, but I nevercould make both ends meet, and I got a tiresome long bill at Langdon's, and that vexed him, so now I get what I like and mamma pays. "

Erica made no comment, but was not a little amazed. Presently Mrs. Fane-Smith came in, and seemed well pleased with her niece's appearance. 

"You have the old point!" she exclaimed. 

"Aunt Jean gave it to me, " said Erica. "She never would part with itbecause it was grandmamma's at least, she did sell it once, when fatherwas ill years ago, and we were at our wit's end for money, but she gotit back again before the end of the year. "

Mrs. Fane-Smith colored deeply, partly at the idea of her mother'slace being taken to a pawnbroker's, partly to hear that her brother andsister had ever been reduced to such straits. She made an excuse to takeErica away to her room, and there questioned her more than she had yetdone about her home. 

"I thought your father was so strong, " she said. "Yet you speak as if hehad had several illnesses. "

"He has, " replied Erica. "Twice I can remember the time when theythought him dying, besides after the riot last year. Yes, he is strong, but, you see, he has such a hard life. It is bad enough now, and I doubtif any one knows how fearfully he overworked himself during the year inAmerica. The other day I had to look something up in his diary for him, and not till then did I find out how terribly he must have taxed hisstrength. On an average he got one night's rest in the week, onthe others he slept as well as he could in the long cars, which arewretchedly uncomfortable; the sleeping cars being expensive, he wouldn'tgo in them. "

Mrs. Fane-Smith sighed. Her brother was becoming more of a livingreality to her; she thought of him less as a type of wickedness. Therecollection, too, that she had been all her life enjoying the moneywhich he and her sister Jean had forfeited by their opinions, made hergrieve the more over the little details of poverty and privation. OldMr. Raeburn had left all his money to her, bequeathing to his otherdaughter and his reprobate son the sum of one shilling, with the hopethat Heaven would bring them to a better mind. It was some comfort tolearn from Erica that at last the terrible load of debt had been clearedoff, and that they were comparatively free from trouble just at present. 

With these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Fane-Smith found herself on herway to Lady Caroline's; but her developing breadth of view was destinedto receive a severe shock. They were the last guests to arrive, and atthe very moment of their entrance Lady Caroline was talking in her mostvivacious way to Mr. Cuthbert, a young clergyman, the vicar of one ofthe Greyshot churches. 

"I am going to give you a treat, Mr. Cuthbert, " she said laughingly. "Iknow you are artistic, and so I intend you to take down that charmingniece of Mrs. Fane-Smith's. I assure you she is like a Burne-Jonesangel!"

Mr. Cuthbert smiled a quietly superior smile, and coolly surveyed Ericaas she came in. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and it was notuntil Mrs. Fane-Smith had been taken down that Lady Caroline brought Mr. Cuthbert to Erica's side to introduce him. "Why, your aunt has never toldme your name, " she said, smiling. 

"My name is Erica Raeburn, " said Erica, quite unconscious that this wasa revelation to every one, and that her aunt had purposely spoken of hereverywhere as "my niece. "

Lady Caroline gave a scarcely perceptible start of surprise, andthere was a curious touch of doubt and constraint in her voice asshe pronounced the "Mr. Cuthbert, Miss Raeburn. " Undoubtedly that namesounded rather strangely in her drawing room, and awoke uncomfortablesuggestions. 

"Raeburn! Erica Raeburn!" thought Mr. Cuthbert to himself. "Uncommonname in England. Connection, I wonder! Aunt hadn't given her name! Thatlooks odd. I'll see if she has a Scotch accent. "

"Are you staying in Greyshot?" he asked as they went down the broadstaircase, with its double border of flowering plants. 

"Yes, " said Erica; "I came last week. What lovely country it is abouthere!"

"Country, " with its thrilled "r, " betrayed her nationality, though heraccent was of the slightest. Mr. Cuthbert chuckled to himself, for hethought he had caught Mrs. Fane-Smith tripping, and he was a manwho derived an immense amount of pleasure from making other peopleuncomfortable. As a child, he had been a tease; as a big boy, he hadbeen a bully; as a man, he had become a malicious gossip monger. Tonighthe thought he saw a chance of good sport, and directly he had saidgrace, in the momentary pause which usually follows, he turned to Ericawith an abrupt, though outwardly courteous question, carried off with alittle laugh. 

"I hope you are no relation to that despicable infidel who bears yourname, Miss Raeburn?"

Erica's color deepened; she almost annihilated him with a flash from herbright indignant eyes. 

"I am Luke Raeburn's daughter, " she said, in her clearest voice, andwith a dignity which, for the time, spoiled Mr. Cuthbert's enjoyment. 

Many people had heard the vicar's question during the pause, and nota few listened curiously for the answer which, though quietly spoken, reached many ears, for nothing gives so much penetrating power to wordsas concentrated will and keen indignation. Before long every one in theroom knew that Mrs. Fane-Smith's pretty niece was actually the daughterof "that evil and notorious Raeburn. "

Mr. Cuthbert had certainly got his malicious wish; he had succeededin making Mrs. Fane-Smith miserable, in making his hostess furious, inputting his little neighbor into the most uncomfortable of positions. Ofcourse he was not going to demean himself by talking to "that atheist'sdaughter. " He enjoyed the general discomfiture to his heart's content, and then devoted himself to the lady on his other side. 

As for Erica her blood was up. Forced to sit still, forced even to eatat a table where she was an unwelcome guest, her anger got the masteryof her for the time. She was indignant at the insult to her father, indignant, too, that her aunt had ever allowed her to get into such afalse position. The very constraint she was forced to put upon herselfmade her wrath all the deeper. She was no angel yet, though Mr. Burne-Jones might have taken her for a model. She was a quick-temperedlittle piece of humanity; her passions burned with Highland intensity, her sense of indignation was strong and keen, and the atmosphere ofher home, the hard struggle against intolerable bigotry and maliciouspersecution had from her very babyhood tended to increase this. She hadinherited all her father's passion for justice and much of his excessivepride, while her delicate physical frame made her far more sensitive. Moreover, though since that June morning in the museum she had gained apeace and happiness of which in the old days she had never dreamed, yetthe entire change had in many ways increased the difficulties of herlife. Such a wrench, such an upheaval as it had involved, could not buttell upon her immensely. And, besides, she had in every way for the lastthree months been living at high pressure. 

The grief, the disapproval, the contemptuous pity of her secularistfriends had taxed her strength to the utmost, but she had stood firm, and had indeed been living on the heights. 

Now the months of Charles Osmond's careful preparation were over, herbaptism was over, and a little weary and overdone with all that she hadlived through that summer, she had come down to Greyshot expecting rest, and behold, fresh vexations had awaited her!

A nice Christian world! A nice type of a clergyman! she thought toherself, as bitterly as in the old days, and with a touch of sorrowadded. The old lines from "Hiawatha, " which had been so often on herlips, now rang in her head:

"For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. "

She longed to get up and go, but that would have put her aunt in a yetmore painful position, and might have annoyed Lady Caroline even morethan her presence. She would have given anything to have fainted afterthe convenient fashion of the heroines of romance, but never had shefelt so completely strung up, so conscious of intense vitality. Therewas nothing for it but endurance. And for two mortal hours she had tosit and endure! Mr. Cuthbert never spoke to her; her neighbor on theother side glanced at her furtively from time to time, but preserved astony silence; there was an uncomfortable cloud on her hostess's brow;while her aunt, whom she could see at some distance on the other side ofthe table, looked very white and wretched. 

It is wonderful how rude people can be, even in good society, and thelooks of "blank amaze, " "cold surprise, " and "cool curiosity" whichErica received would hardly be credited. A greater purgatory to asensitive girl, whose pride was by no means conquered, can hardly beconceived. 

She choked down a little food, unable to reject everything, but herthroat almost refused to swallow it. The glare of the lights, theoppressive atmosphere, the babel of tongues seemed to beat upon herbrain, and a sick longing for home almost overmastered her. Oh, to getaway from these so-called Christians, with their cruel judgments, theirluxuries, their gayeties these hard, rich bigots, who yet belonged tothe body she had just joined, with who, in the eyes of her old friends, she should be identified! Oh, for the dear old book-lined study at home!For one moment with her father! One word from a being who loved andtrusted her! Tears started to her eyes, but the recollection that evenhome was no longer a place of refuge checked them. There would be AuntJean's wearing remonstrances and sarcastic remarks; there would be Mr. Masterman's patronizing contempt, and Tom's studious avoidance ofthe matters she had most at heart. Was it worse to be treated as awell-meaning idiot, or as an outcast and semi-heretic? Never till nowhad she so thoroughly realized her isolation, and she felt so bruisedand buffeted and weary that the realization at that particular time wasdoubly trying. 

Isolation is perhaps the greatest of all trials to a sensitive andwarm-hearted nature, and nothing but the truest and deepest love forthe whole race can possibly keep an isolated person from growing bitter. Erica knew this, had known it ever since Brian had brought herthe message from her mother; "It is only love that can keep frombitterness. " All through these years she had been struggling hard, andthough there had been constant temptations, though the harshness of thebigoted, the insults offered to her father in the name of religion, the countless slights and slanders had tried her to the utmost, she hadstill struggled upward, and in spite of all had grown in love. Butnow, for the first time, she found herself completely isolated. Theinjustice, the hardness of it proved too much for her. She forgot thatthose who would be peace-makers reconcilers, must be content to receivethe treatment which the Prince of Peace received; she forgot that theserich, contemptuous people were her brothers and sisters, and that theirhard judgment did not and could not alter their relationship; she forgotall in a burning indignation, in an angry revolt against the injusticeof the world. 

She would study these people, she would note all their little weaknessesand foibles. Mr. Bircham had given her carte blanche for these threeweeks; she would write him a deliciously sarcastic article on modernsociety. The idea fixed her imagination, she laughed to herself at thethought; for, however sad the fact, it is nevertheless true that toordinary mortals "revenge is sweet. " Had she given herself time to thinkout matters calmly, she would have seen that boh Christianity and therules of art were opposed to her idea. It is true that Michael Angeloand other painters used to revenge themselves on the cardinals orenemies they most hated by painting them in the guise of devils, butboth they and their art suffered by such a concession to an animalpassion. And Erica fell grievously that evening. This is one of theevils of social ostracism. It is unjust, unnatural, and selfish. Topreserve what it considers the dignity of society, it drives humanbeings into an unnatural position; it fosters the very evils which itdenounces. And society is grossly unfair. A word, a breath, a falselibel in a newspaper is quite sufficient. It will never trouble itselfto inquire minutely into the truth, but will pronounce its hastyjudgment, and then ostracize. 

Erica began to listen attentively to the conversation, and it must beowned that it was not very edifying. Then she studied the faces andmanners of her companions, and, being almost in the middle of the table, she had a pretty good view. Every creature she studied maliciously, keenly, sarcastically, until she came to the end of the table, and therea most beautiful face brought her back to herself for a minute with asort of shock. Where had she seen it before? A strong, manly face of theRoman type, clean-shaven, save for a very slight mustache, which didnot conceal the firm yet sensitive mouth; dark eyes, which even as shewondered met hers fully for an instant, and gave her a strange feelingof protection. She knew that at least one person in the room did notshudder at the idea of sitting at table with Luke Raeburn's daughter. 

Better thoughts returned to her, she grew a little ashamed of hermalice, and began to wonder who that ideal man could be. Apparently hewas one of the distinguished guests, for he had taken down Lady Carolineherself. Erica was just too far off to hear what he said, and in anothermoment she was suddenly recalled to Mr. Cuthbert. He was talking to theold gentleman on her left hand, who had been silently surveying her atintervals as though he fancied she could not be quite human. 

"Have you been following this Kellner trial?" asked Mr. Cuthbert. "Disgraceful affair, isn't it?"

Then followed references to Eric Haeberlein, and veiled hints about hisLondon friends and associates more dangerous to the country than sayforeigners, "traitors, heady, high-minded, " etc. , etc. Such evil-doersalways managed to keep within the letter of the law; but, for his part, he thought they deserved to be shut up, more than most of those who getpenal servitude for life. 

Erica's wrath blazed up again. Of course the veiled hints were intendedto refer to her father, and the cruelty and insolence of the speakerwho knew that she understood his allusions scattered all her betterthoughts. It required a strong effort of will to keep her anger anddistress from becoming plainly visible. Her unwillingness to giveMr. Cuthbert such a gratification could not have strengthened hersufficiently, but love and loyalty to her father and Eric Haeberlein hadcarried her through worse ordeals than this. 

She showed no trace of embarrassment, but moved a very little furtherback in her chair, implying by a sort of quiet dignity of manner, thatshe thought Mr. Cuthbert exceedingly ill-mannered to talk across her. 

Feeling that his malicious endeavor had entirely failed, and stungby her dignified disapproval, Mr. Cuthbert struck out vindictively. Breaking the silence he had maintained toward her, he suddenly flashedround upon her with a question. 

"I suppose you are intimately acquainted with Eric Haeberlein?"

He tried to make his tone casual and seemingly courteous, but failed. 

"What makes you suppose that?" asked Erica, in a cool, quiet voice. 

Her perfect self-control, and her exceedingly embarrassingcounter-question, quite took him aback. At that very minute, too, there was the pause, and the slight movement, and the glance from LadyCaroline which reminded him that he was the only clergyman present, andhad to return thanks. He bent forward, and went through the usual formof "For what we have received, " though all the time he was thinkingof the "counter-check quarrelsome" he had received from his next-doorneighbor. When he raised his head again he found her awaiting hisanswer, her clear, steady eyes quietly fixed on his face with a lookwhich was at once sad, indignant, and questioning. 

His question had been an insulting one. He had meant it to prick andsting, but it is one thing to be indirectly rude, and another to givethe "lie direct. " Her quiet return question, her dignity, made itimpossible for him to insult her openly. He was at her mercy. He coloreda little, stammered something incoherent about "thinking it possible. "

"You are perfectly right, " replied Erica, still speaking in her quietlydignified voice. "I have known Herr Haeberlein since I was a baby, soyou will understand that it is quite impossible for me to speak with youabout him after hearing the opinions you expressed just now. "

For once in his life Mr. Cuthbert felt ashamed of himself. He did notfeel comfortable all through dessert, and gave a sigh of relief when theladies left the room. 

As for Erica's other neighbor, he could not help reflecting that LukeRaeburn's daughter had had the best of it in the encounter. And hewondered a little that a man, whom he had known to do many a kindlyaction, should so completely have forgotten the rules of ordinarycourtesy. 

CHAPTER XXVI. A Friend

 Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us; but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you suggest that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable. --Plato. 

In the drawing room Erica found the ostracism even more complete andmore embarrassing. Lady Caroline who was evidently much annoyed, tooknot the slightest notice of her, but was careful to monopolize the onefriendly looking person in the room, a young married lady in pale-bluesilk. The other ladies separated into groups of two and threes, andignored her existence. Lady Caroline's little girl, a child of twelve, was well bred enough to come toward her with some shy remark, but hermother called her to the other side of the room quite sharply, andmade some excuse to keep her there, as if contact with Luke Raeburn'sdaughter would have polluted her. 

A weary half hour passed. Then the door opened, and the gentlemen filedin. Erica, half angry, half tired, and wholly miserable, was revolvingin her brain some stinging sentences for her article when the beautifulface again checked her. Her "Roman, " as she called him, had come in, andwas looking round the room, apparently searching for some one. At lasttheir eyes met, and, with a look which said as plainly as words: "Oh, there you are! It was you I wanted, " he came straight towards her. 

"You must forgive me, Miss Raeburn, for dispensing with anintroduction, " he said; "but I hardly think we shall need any except thename of our mutual fried, Charles Osmond. "

Erica's heart gave a bound. The familiar name, the consciousness thather wretched loneliness was at an end, and above all, the instantaneousperception of the speaker's nobility and breadth of mind, scattered forthe time all her resentful thoughts made her again her best self. 

"Then you must be Donovan!" she exclaimed, with the quaint and winsomefrankness which was one of her greatest charms. "I knew I was sure youwere not like other people. "

He took her hand in his, and no longer wondered at Brian's seven years'hopeless waiting. But Erica began to realize that her exclamation hadbeen appallingly unconventional, and the beautiful color deepened in hercheeks. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said, remembering with horror that he was notonly a stranger but an M. P. , "I I don't know what made me say that, butthey have always spoken of you by your Christian name, and you have solong been 'Donovan' in my mind that somehow it slipped out you didn'tfeel like a stranger. "

"I am glad of that, " he said, his dark and strangely powerful eyeslooking right into hers. Something in that look made her feel positivelyakin to him. Like a stranger! Of course he had not felt like one. Nevercould be like anything but a friend. "You see, " he continued, "we haveknown of each other for years, and we know that we have one great bondof union which others have not. Don't retract the 'Donovan' I like it. Let it be the outward sign of the real and unusual likeness in the fightwe have fought. "

She still half hesitated. He was a man of five-and-thirty, and shecould not get over the feeling that her impulsive exclamation had beenpresumptuous. He saw her uncertainty, and perhaps liked her the betterfor it, though the delicious naturalness, the child-like recognition ofa real though scarcely known friend, had delighted him. 

"We are a little more brother and sister than the rest of the world, " hesaid, with the chivalrous manner which seemed to belong naturally to hispeculiarly noble face. "And if I were to confess that I had not alwaysthought of you as 'Miss Raeburn'--"

He paused, and Erica laughed. It was absurd to stand on ceremony withthis kindred spirit. 

"Have you seen the conservatory?" he asked. "Shall we come in there? Iwant to hear all about the Osmonds. "

The relief of speaking with one who knew and loved Charles Osmond, anddid not, for want of real knowledge, brand him with the names of half adozen heresies, was very great. It was not for some time that Erica evenglanced at the lovely surroundings, though she had inherited Raeburn'sgreat love of flowers. At last, however, an exquisite white flowerattracted her notice, and she broke off in the middle of a sentence. 

"Oh, how lovely! I never saw anything like that before. What is it?"

"It is the EUCHARIS AMAZONICA, " replied her companion "About the mostexquisite flower in the world, I should think the 'dove flower, ' asmy little ones call it. Ir you look at it from a distance the stamensreally look like doves bending down to drink. "

"It is perfect! How I wish my father could see it!"

"We have a fairly good one at Oakdene, though not equal to this. We mustpersuade you and Mr. Raeburn to come and stay with us some day. "

The tears came into Erica's eyes, so great was the contrast between hisfriendliness and the chilling discourtesy she had met with from othersthat evening. 

"You are very good, " she said. "If you only knew how hard it is to betreated as if one were a sort of semi-criminal!"

"I do know, " he said. "It was this very society which goaded me intoa sort of wild rebellion years ago. I deserved its bad opinion in ameasure, and you do not, but it was unfair enough to make one prettydesperate. "

"If they were actual saints one might endure it, " cried Erica. "But tohave such a man as my father condemned just as hearsay by people whoare living lazy, wasteful lives is really too much. I came to Greyshotexpecting at least unity, at least, peace in a Christian atmosphere, andTHIS is what I get. "

Donovan listened in silence, a great sadness in his eyes. There was apause; then Erica continued: "You think I speak hotly. I cannot help it. I think I do not much mind what they do to me, but it is the injusticeof the thing that makes one wild, and worst of all, the knowing thatthis is what drives people into atheism this is what dishonors the nameof Christ. "

"You are right, " he replied, with a sigh; "that IS the worst of it. Ihave come to the conclusion that to be tolerant to the intolerant is themost difficult thing in life. "

"You must have plenty of practice in this dreadful place, " said Erica. 

He smiled a little. 

"Why, to be seen talking to ME will make people say all sorts of evil ofyou, " she added. "I wish I had thought of that before. "

"You wouldn't have spoken to me?" asked Donovan, laughing. "Then I amvery glad it didn't occur to you. But about that you may be quite easy;nothing could make them think much worse of me than they do already. Ibegan life as the black sheep of the neighborhood, and it is easier forthe Ethiopian to change his skin than for a man to live down the pastin public opinion. I shall be, at any rate, the dusky gray sheep of theplace to the end of my life. "

There was no bitterness, no shade of complaint in his tone; he merelystated a fact. Erica was amazed; she knew that he was about the only manwho attempted to grapple with the evil and degradation and poverty ofGreyshot. 

"You see, " he continued, with a bright look which seemed to raise Ericainto purer atmosphere, "it is not the public estimation which makes aman's character. There is one question, which I think we ought never toask ourselves, and that is 'What will people think of me?' It should beinstead: 'How can I serve?'"

"But if they take away your power, how can you serve?"

"They can't take it away; they may check and hinder for a time, that isall. I believe one may serve always and everywhere. "

"You don't mean that I can serve that roomful of enemies in there?"

"That is exactly what I do mean, " he answered, smiling a little. 

In the meantime, Lady Caroline was apologizing to Mr. Cuthbert. 

"I don't know when I have been so vexed!" she exclaimed. "It is reallytoo bad of Mrs. Fane-Smith. I had no idea that the Burne-Jones angel Ipromised you was the daughter of that disgraceful man. What a horriblesatire, is it not?"

"Pray, don't apologize, " said Mr. Cuthbert. "It was really ratheramusing than otherwise, and I fancy the young lady will be in no greathurry to force her way into society again. "

He laughed a soft, malicious, chuckling laugh. 

"I should hope not, indeed, " said Lady Caroline, indignantly. "Where hasshe disappeared to?"

"Need you ask?" said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. "Our revered member securedher at once, and has been talking to her in the conservatory for atleast half an hour, hatching radical plots, I dare say, and vowingvengeance on all aristocrats. "

"Really it is too shocking!" said Lady Caroline. "Mr. Farrant has nosense of what is fitting; it is a trait which I have always noticed inRadicals. He ought, at least to have some respect for his position. "

"Birds of a feather flock together, " suggested Mr. Cuthbert, with hismalicious smile. 

"Well, I don't often defend Mr. Farrant, " said Lady Caroline. "Buthe comes of a good old family, and, though a Radical, he is at leastrespectable. "

Lady Caroline knew absolutely nothing about Erica, but uttered the lastsentence, with its vague, far-reaching, and most damaging hint, withouteven a pricking of conscience. 

"You will try to rescue the M. P. ?" asked Mr. Cuthbert. 

"For the sake of his position, yes, " said Lady Caroline, entering theconservatory. 

"Oh! Mr. Farrant, " she said, with her most gracious smile, "I came tosee whether you couldn't induce your wife to sing to us. Now, is ittrue that she has given up her music? I assure you she and I have beenbattling the point ever since you came up. Can't you persuade her togive us just one song? I am really in despair for some music. "

"I am afraid my wife is quite out of voice, " said Donovan. "Are there noother musical people?"

"Not one. It is really most astonishing. I was counting on MissFane-Smith, but she has disappointed me, and there is not anothercreature who will play or sing a note. Greyshot is a terrible unmusicalplace. "

"You do not belong to Greyshot, so perhaps you may be able to come tothe rescue, " said Donovan to Erica. "Scotch people can, at any rate, always play or sing their own national airs as no one else can. "

Lady Caroline did not really in the least care whether there were musicor not, but she had expressed herself very strongly, and that tiresomeMr. Farrant had taken her at her word, and was trying to beatup recruits recruits that she did not want. He had now, whetherintentionally or not, put her in such a position that, unless she werepositively rude, she must ask Erica to play or sing. 

"Have you brought any music, Miss Raeburn?" she asked, turning toErica with a chilling look, as though she had just become aware of herpresence. 

"I have none to bring, " said Erica. "I do not profess to sing; I onlysing our own Scotch airs. "

"Exactly what I said!" exclaimed Donovan. "And Scotch singing of Scotchairs is like nothing else in the world. "

Whether he mesmerized them both, or whether his stronger will and higherpurpose prevailed, it would be hard to say. Certainly Erica was quite asunwilling to sing as Lady Caroline was to favor her with a request. Bothhad to yield, however, and Erica, whether she would or not, had to serveher roomful of enemies and a great deal of good it did her. 

Out of the quiet conservatory they came into the heat and glare andbabel of voices; Lady Caroline feeling as if she had been caught in herown trap, Erica wavering between resentful defiance and the desire tosubstitute Donovan's "How can I serve?" for "What do they think?"

She sat down to the piano, which was in a far-away corner, and soon shehad forgotten her audience altogether. Although she had had little timeor opportunity for a thorough musical education, she had great taste, and was musical by nature; she sang her national airs, as very few couldhave sung them, and so wild and pathetic was the air she had chosen, "The Flowers of the Forest, " that the roar of conversation at onceceased. She knew nothing whatever about the listeners; the air had takenher back to her father's recovery at Codrington the year before. She wassinging to him once more. 

The old gentleman who had sat on her right hand at dinner came up nowwith his first remark. 

"Thank you, that was a real treat, and a very rare treat. I wonderwhether you would sing an old favorite of mine 'Oh, why did ye gang, lassie?'"

Erica at once complied, and there was such pathos in her low, clearvoice, that tears stood in the eyes of more than one listener. Shehad never dared to sing that song at home since one evening some weeksbefore, when her father had just walked out of the room, unable to bearthe mournful refrain "I never, never thought ye wad leave me!" The songwas closely associated with the story of that summer, and she sang it toperfection. 

Donovan Farrant came toward her again at the close. 

"I want to introduce my wife to you, " he said. 

And Erica found that the young married lady in the pale-blue silk, whomshe had singled out as the one approachable lady in the room, was Mrs. Farrant. She was very bright, and sunshiny, and talkative. Erica likedher, and would have liked her still better had not the last week shownher so much of the unreality and insincerity of society that she halfdoubted whether any one she met in Greyshot could be quite true. Mrs. Farrant's manner was charming, but charming manners had often turned outto be exceedingly artificial, and Erica, who was in rather a hard mood, would not let herself be won over, but held her judgment in suspension, responding brightly enough to her companion's talk, but keeping the bestpart of herself in reserve. 

At length the evening ended, and the guests gradually dispersed. Mr. Cuthbert walked across the road to his vicarage, still chucklingto himself as he thought of the general discomfiture caused by hisquestion. The musical old gentleman returned to his home revolving astartling new idea; after all, might not the Raeburns and such peoplebe very much like the rest of the world? Were they not probably assusceptible to pain and pleasure, to comfort and discomfort, torudeness and civility? He regretted very much that he had not broken themiserably uncomfortable silence at dinner. 

Donovan Farrant and his wife were already far from Greyshot, drivingalong the quiet country road to Oakdene Manor. 

"A lovely girl, " Mrs. Farrant was saying. "I should like to know herbetter. Tonight I had the feeling somehow that she was purposely keepingon the surface of things, one came every now and then to a sort of wall, a kind of hard reserve. "

"Who can wonder!" exclaimed Donovan. "I am afraid, Gladys, the oldproverb will have a very fair chance of being fulfilled. That child hascome out seeking wool, and as likely as not she'll go home shorn. "

"Society can be very cruel!" signed Gladys. "I did so long to get to herafter dinner; but Lady Caroline kept me, I do believe, purposely. "

"Lady Caroline and Mr. Cuthbert will little dream of the harm they havedone, " said Donovan. "I think I understand as I never understood beforethe burning indignation of that rebuke to the Pharisees 'Full well yereject the commandment of god that ye may keep your own traditions. '"

In the meantime there was dead silence in the Fane-Smiths' carriage, an ominous silence. There was an unmistakable cloud on Mr. Fane-Smith'sface; he had been exceedingly annoyed at what had taken place, and withnative perversity, attributed it all to Erica. His wife was miserable. She felt that her intended kindness had proved a complete failure;she was afraid of her husband's clouded brow, still more afraid of herniece's firmly closed mouth, most afraid of all at the thought of LadyCaroline's displeasure. Nervous and overwrought, anxious to conciliateall parties, and afraid of making matters worse, she timidly went intoErica's room, and after beating about the bush for a minute or two, plunged rashly into the sore subject. 

"I am so sorry, dear, about tonight, " she said. "I wish it could havebeen prevented. "

Erica, standing up straight and tall in her velveteen dress, with awhite shawl half thrown back from her shoulders, looked to her auntterribly dignified and uncompromising. 

"I can't say that I thought them courteous, " she replied. 

"It was altogether unfortunate, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith, hurriedly. "Ihoped your name would not transpire; I ought to have suggested thechange to you before, but--"

"What change?" asked Erica, her forehead contracting a little. 

"We thought we hoped that perhaps, if you adopted our name, it mightprevent unpleasantness. Such things are done, you know, and then, too, we might make some arrangement about your grandfather's money, a partof which I feel is now yours by right. Even now the change would showpeople the truth, would save many disagreeables. "

During this speech Erica's face had been a study; an angry glow of colorrushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed dangerously. She was a younggirl, but there was a good deal of the lion about her at that minute, and her aunt trembled listening perforce to the indignant outburst. 

"What truth would it show?" she cried. "I don't believe there is sucha thing as truth among all these wretched shams! I will never changemy name to escape from prejudice and bigotry, or to win a share in mygrandfather's property! What! Give up my father's name to gain the moneywhich might have kept him from pain and ruin and semi-starvation? Takethe money that might have brought comfort to my mother that might havekept me with her to the end. I couldn't take it. I would rather diethan touch one penny of it. It is too late now. If you thought I wouldconsent if that is the reason you asked me here, I can go at once. Iwould not willingly have brought shame upon you, but neither will Idishonor myself nor insult my father by changing my name. Why, to do sowould be to proclaim that I judged him as those Pharisees did tonight. The hypocrites! Which of them can show one grain of love for the race, to set against my father's life of absolute devotion? They sit overtheir champagne and slander atheists, and then have the face to callthemselves Christians. "

"My dear!" said Mrs. Fane-Smith, nervously. "Our only wish is to do whatis best for you; but you are too tired and excited to discuss this now. I will wish you good night. "

"I never wish to discuss it again, thank you, " said Erica, submitting toa particularly warm embrace. 

Mrs. Fane-Smith was right in one way. Erica was intensely excited. Whenpeople have been riding rough-shod over one's heart, one is apt to beexcited, and Luke Raeburn's daughter had inherited that burning senseof indignation which was so strongly marked a characteristic in Raeburnhimself. Violins can be more sweet and delicate in tone than any otherinstrument, but they can also wail with greater pathos, and produce amore fearful storm of passion. 

Declining any assistance from Gemma, Erica locked her door, caughtup some sheets of foolscap, snatched up her pen, and began to writerapidly. She knew well enough that she ought not to have written. Butwhen the heart is hot with indignation, when the brain produces scathingsentences, when the subject seems to have taken possession of the wholebeing, to deny its utterance is quite the hardest thing in the world. 

Erica struggled to resist, but at length yielded, and out rushedsarcasms, denunciations, return blows innumerable! The relief was great. However, her enjoyment was but short for by the time her article wasrolled up for the post, stamped and directed, her physical powers gaveway; such blank exhaustion ensuing that all she could do was to dragherself across the room, throw herself, half dressed, on the bed, drawthe rezai over her, and yield to the heavy, overpowering slumber ofgreat weariness. 

It seemed to her that she slept about five minutes, and was thenroused by a knocking at her door. She started up, and found that it wasmorning. Then she recollected bolting her door, and sprung out of bedto undo it, but was reminded at once that she had a spine. She hadquite recovered from the effects of her illness, but over-fatigue alwaysbrought back the old pain, and warned her that she must be more carefulin the future. The house maid seemed a little surprised not to findher up and dressed as usual, for Erica generally got through an hour'swriting before the nine o'clock breakfast. 

"Are you ill, miss?" she asked, glancing at the face which seemed almostas colorless as the pillow. 

"Only very tired, thank you, " said Erica, glad enough today of the cupof tea and the thin bread and butter which before had seemed to her suchan absurd luxury. 

"Letters for the early post, miss, I suppose?" said the house maid, taking up the fiery effusion. 

"Please, " replied Erica, not turning her head, and far too weary to givea thought to her last night's work. All she could think of just then wasthe usual waking reflection of a sufferer "How in the world shall I getthrough the day?"

The recollection, however, of her parting conversation with her auntmade her determined to be down to breakfast. Her absence might bemisconstrued. And though feeling ill-prepared for remonstrance orargument, she was in her place when the gong sounded for prayers, looking white and weary indeed, but with a curve of resoluteness abouther mouth. Nobody found out how tired she was. Mr. Fane-Smith was asblind as a bat, and Mrs. Fane-Smith was too low-spirited and too muchabsorbed with her own cares to notice. The events of last night lookedmore and more disagreeable, and she was burdened with thoughts of whatpeople would say; moreover, Rose's cold was much worse, and as hermother was miserable if even her little finger ached, she was greatlydisturbed, and persuaded herself that her child was really in a mostdangerous state. 

Breakfast proved a very silent meal that morning, quite oppressivelysilent; Erica felt like a child in disgrace. Every now and then thegrimness of it appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she feltinclined to scream or do something desperate just to see what wouldhappen. At length the dreary repast came to an end, and she had justtaken up a newspaper, with a sort of gasp of relief at the thought ofescaping for a moment into a larger world, when she was recalled to thenarrow circle of Greyshot by a word from Mr. Fane-Smith. 

"I wish to have a talk with you, my dear; will you come to the libraryat ten o'clock?"

An interview by appointment! That sounded formidable! When the timecame, Erica went rather apprehensively to the library, fearing that shewas in for an argument, and wishing that Mr. Fane-Smith had chosen a dayon which she felt a little more up to things. 

He received her very kindly, and drew an easy chair up to the fire forher, no doubt doing as he would be done by, for he was a chillyIndian mortal. Erica had never been into the library before. It was adelightful room, furnished with old carved oak and carpeted with softIndian rugs. Though dignified by the name of library, it was not nearlyso crowded with books as the little study at home; all the volumes werebeautifully bound in much-begilt calf or morocco, but they had not theused, loved look of her father's books. On the mantel piece there weresome models of Indian idols exquisitely carved in soft, greenish-graysoapstone, and behind these, as if in protest, lurked the onlyunornamental thing in the room, a very ordinary missionary box, coveredwith orange-colored paper and impressively black negroes. 

"I am sure, my dear, " said Mr. Fane-Smith, "that after what occurredlast night you will see the desirability of thinking seriously aboutyour plans for the future. I have been intending to speak to you, butwaited until we had learned to know each other a little. However, Iregret now that I delayed. It is naturally far from desirable that youshould remain an inmate of your father's house, and my wife and I shouldbe very glad if you would make your home with us. Of course when it wasfully understood in Greyshot that you had utterly renounced your fatherand your former friends, such unpleasantness as you encounteredlast night would not again occur; indeed, I fancy you would becomeexceedingly popular. It would perhaps have been wiser if you would havetaken our name, but your aunt tells me you object to that. "

"Yes, " said Erica, who was writhing with anger, and relieved herself bythe slight sarcasm, "I do object to be Miss Feign-Fane-Smith. "

"Well, that must be as you please, " he resumed; "but I really think ifyou will accept our offer it will be for your ultimate good. "

He proceeded to enumerate all the benefits which would accrue to her;then paused. 

Erica was silent for a minute. When she spoke it was in the low voice ofone who is struggling to restrain passion. 

"I am sure you mean this very kindly, " she said. "I have tried to listento your offer patiently, though, of course, the moment you began, I knewthat I must entirely emphatically, decline it. I will NEVER leave myfather!"

The last words were spoken with a sort of half-restrained outburst, asif the pent-up passion must find some outlet. 

Mr. Fane-Smith was startled. He so seldom thought of Luke Raeburn as afellow-being at all that perhaps it had never occurred to him that thelove of parent to child, and child to parent, is quite independent ofcreed. 

"But, my dear, " he said, "you have been baptized. "

"I have. "

"You promised to renounce the devil and all his works. "

"I did. "

"Then how can you hesitate to renounce everything connected with yourformer life?"

"Do you mean to imply that my father is the devil or one of his works?"

Mr. Fane-Smith was silent. Erica continued:

"God's Fatherhood does not depend on our knowledge of it, or acceptanceof it, it is a fact a truth! How then can any one dare to say that sucha man as my farther is a work of the devil? I thought the sin of sinswas to attribute to the devil what belongs to God!"

"You are in a very peculiar position, " said Mr. Fane-Smith, uneasily. "And I have no doubt it is difficult for you to see things as theyreally are. But I, who can look at the matter dispassionately, can seethat your remaining in your old home would be most dangerous, and notonly that, but most painful! To live in a house where you hear all thatyou most reverence evil spoken of; why, the pain would be unspeakable!"

"I know that, " said Erica, in a low voice, "I have found that I admitthat it is and always will be harder to bear than any one can conceivewho has not tried. But to shirk pain is not to follow Christ. As todanger, if you will forgive my saying so, I should find a luxurious lifein a place like Greyshot infinitely more trying. "

"Then could you not take up nursing? Or go into some sisterhood? Nothingextreme, you know, but just a working sisterhood. "

Erica smiled, and shook her head. 

"Why should I try to make another vocation when God has already given meone?"

"But, my dear, consider the benefit to your own soul. "

"A very secondary consideration!" exclaimed Erica, impetuously. 

"I should have thought, " continued Mr. Fane-Smith, "that under suchstrange circumstances you would have seen how necessary it was toforsake all. Think of St. Matthew, for instance; he rose up at once, forsook all, and followed Him. "

"Yes, " said Erica. "And what was the very first thing he was impelled todo by way of 'following?' Why, to make a great feast and have in all hisold friends, all the despised publicans. "

"My dear Erica, " said Mr. Fane-Smith, feeling his theological argumentsworsted, "we must discuss this matter on practical grounds. In plainwords, your father is a very bad man, and you ought to have nothing moreto do with him. "

Erica's lips turned white with anger; but she answered, calmly:

"That is a very great accusation. How do you know it is true?"

"I know it well enough, " said Mr. Fane-Smith. "Why, every one in Englandknows it. "

"If you accept mere hearsay evidence, you may believe anything of anyone. Have you ever read any of my father's books?"

"No. "

"Or heard him lecture?"

"No, indeed; I would not hear him on any account. "

"Have you ever spoken with any of his intimate friends?"

"Mr. Raeburn's acquaintances are not likely to mix with any one I shouldknow. "

"Then, " cried Erica, "how can you know anything whatever about him? Andhow how DARE you say to me, his child, that he is a wicked man?"

"It is a matter of common notoriety. "

"No, " said Erica, "there you are wrong. It is notorious that my fatherteaches conscientiously teaches much that we regard as error, but peoplewho openly accuse him of evil living find to their cost in the lawcourts that they have foully libeled him. "

She flushed even now at the thought of some of the hateful and wickedaccusations of the past. Then, after a moment's pause, she continuedmore warmly:

"It is you people in society who get hold of some misquoted story, someridiculous libel long ago crushed at the cost of the libeler it is youwho do untold mischief! Only last summer I remember seeing in a paperthe truest sentence that was ever written of my father, and it was this, 'Probably no one man has ever had to endure such gross personal insults, such widespread hostility, such perpetual calumny. ' Why are you to judgehim? Even if you had a special call to it, how could you justly judgehim when you will not hear him, or know him, or fairly study hiswritings, or question his friends? How can you know anything whateverabout him? Why, if he judged you and your party as you judge him, youwould be furious!"

"My dear, you speak with so much warmth; if you would only discussthings calmly!" said Mr. Fane-Smith. "Remember what George Herbertsays: 'Calmness is a great advantage. ' You bring too much feeling to thediscussion. "

"How can I help feeling when you are slandering my father?" exclaimedErica. "I have tried to be calm, but there are limits to endurance!Would you like Rose to sit silently while my father told her without anyground that you were a wicked man?"

When matters were reversed in this crude way, Mr. Fane-Smith winced alittle. 

"The cases are different, " he suggested. 

"Do you think atheists don't love their children as much as Christians?"cried Erica, half choked with indignant anger. A vision of the past, of her dead mother, of her father's never-failing tenderness broughta cloud of tears to her eyes. She brushed them away. "The cases aredifferent, as you say; but does a man care less for his home, whenoutside it he is badgered and insulted, or does he care infinitely more?Does a man care less for his child because, to get her food, he has hadto go short himself, or does he care more? I think the man who has hadto toil with all his might for his family loves it better than the richman can. You say I speak with too much warmth, too much feeling. Mycomplaint is the other way I can't find words strong enough to give youany idea of what my father has always been to me. To leave him would beto wrong my conscience, and to forsake my duty; and to distrust God. Iwill NEVER leave him!"

With that she got up and left the room, and Mr. Fane-Smith leaned backin his chair with a sigh, his eyes fixed absently upon a portrait ofNapoleon above his mantel piece, his mind more completely shaken out ofits ordinary grooves than it had been for years. He was a narrow-mindedman, but he was honest. He saw that he had judged Raeburn very unfairly. But perhaps what occupied his thoughts the most was the question"Would Rose have been able to say of him all that Erica had said of herfather?" He sighed many times, but after awhile slid back into the oldhabits of thought. 

"Erica is a brave, noble, little thing, " he said to himself, "but farfrom orthodox far from orthodox! Socinian tendencies. "

CHAPTER XXVII. At Oak Dene Manor

 Ah! To how many faith has been No evidence of things unseen, But a dim shadow that recasts the creed of the Phantasiasts. 

 * * * *

 For others a diviner creed Is living in the life they lead. The passing of their beautiful feet Blesses the pavement of the street, And all their looks and words repeat Old Fuller's saying wise and sweet, Not as a vulture, but a dove, The Holy Ghost came from above. 

 Tales of a Wayside Inn. Longfellow

During the interview Erica had braced herself up to endure, but whenit was over her strength all at once evaporated. She dragged herselfupstairs somehow, and had just reached her room, when Mrs. Fane-Smithmet her. She was preoccupied with her own anxieties, or Erica'sexhaustion could not have escaped her notice. 

"I am really quite unhappy about Rose!" she exclaimed. "We must sendfor Doctor L----. Her cough seems so much worse, I fear it will turn tobronchitis. Are you learned in such things?"

"I helped to nurse Tom through a bad attack once, " said Erica. 

"Oh! Then come and see her, " said Mrs. Fane-Smith. 

Erica went without a word. She would not have liked Mrs. Fane-Smith'sfussing, but yet the sight of her care for Rose made her feel moreachingly conscious of the blank in her own life that blank which nothingcould ever fill. She wanted her own mother so terribly, and just nowMrs. Fane-Smith had touched the old wound roughly. 

Rose seemed remarkably cheerful, and not nearly so much invalided as hermother thought. 

"Mamma always thinks I am going to die if I'm at all out of sorts, " sheremarked, when Mrs. Fane-Smith had left the room to write to the doctor. "I believe you want doctoring much more than I do. What is the matter?You are as white as a sheet!"

"I am tired and rather worried, and my back is troublesome, " said Erica. 

"Then you'll just lie down on my sofa, " said Rose, peremptorily. "If youdon't, I shall get out of bed and make you. "

Erica did not require much compulsion for every inch of her seemed tohave a separate ache, and she was still all quivering and tingling withthe indignant anger stirred up by her interview with Mr. Fane-Smith. Shelet Rose chatter away and tried hard to school herself into calmness. By and by her efforts were rewarded; she not only grew calm, but fellasleep, and slept like any baby till the gong sounded for luncheon. 

Luncheon proved a very silent meal; it was, if possible, more tryingthat breakfast had been. Mrs. Fane-Smith had heard all about theinterview from her husband, and they were both perplexed and disturbed. Erica felt uncertain of her footing with them, and could only wait forthem to make the first move. But the grim silence tickled her fancy. 

"Really, " she thought to herself, "we might be so many horses munchingaway at mangers, for all we have said to each other. "

But in spite of it she did not feel inclined to make conversation. 

Later on she went for a drive with her aunt; the air revived her, and she began to feel more like herself again. They went out into thecountry, but on the way home Mrs. Fane-Smith stopped at one of the shopsin High Street, leaving Erica in the carriage. She was leaning backrestfully, watching a beautiful chestnut horse which was being held by aragged boy at the door of the bank just opposite, when her attention wassuddenly aroused by an ominous howling and barking. The chestnut horsebegan to kick, and the boy had as much as he could to hold him. Startingforward, Erica saw that a fox terrier had been set upon by another andlarger dog, and that the two were having a desperate fight. The foxterrier was evidently fighting against fearful odds, for he was an olddog, and not nearly so strong as his antagonist; the howls and barksgrew worse and worse; some of the passengers ran off in a fright, otherswatched from a safe distance, but not one interfered. 

Now Erica was a great lover of animals, and a passionate lover ofjustice. Furious to see men and boys looking on without attempting tostop the mischief, she sprang out of the carriage, and, rushing up tothe combatants, belabored the big dog with her parasol. It had a strongstick, but she hit so vehemently that it splintered all to bits, andstill the dog would not leave its victim. Then, in her desperation, shehit on the right remedy; with great difficulty she managed to grasp himby the throat, and, using all her force, so nearly suffocated him thathe was obliged to loosen his hold. At that moment, too, a strong manrushed forward and dealt him such a blow that he bounded off with ayell of pain, and ran howling down the street. Erica bent over the foxterrier then; the big dog had mangled it frightfully, it was coveredwith blood, and moaned piteously. 

"Waif! My poor waif!" exclaimed a voice which she seemed to know. "Hasthat brute killed you?"

She looked up and saw Donovan Farrant; he recognized her, but theywere both too much absorbed in the poor dog's condition to think of anyordinary greeting. 

"Where will you take him?" asked Erica. 

Donovan stooped down to examine poor Waif's injuries. 

"I fear there is little to be done, " he said. "But we might take himacross to the chemist's opposite. Will you hold my whip for me?"

She took it, and with infinite skill and tenderness Donovan lifted thefox terrier, while Erica hurried on in front to tell the chemist. Theytook Waif into a little back room, and did all they could for him; butthe chemist shrugged his shoulders. 

"Better kill the poor brute at once, Mr. Farrant, " he said, blandly. 

Donovan looked up with a strange gleam in his eyes. 

"Not for the world!" he exclaimed, with a touch of indignation in histone. 

And after that he only spoke to Erica, who, seeing that the chemisthad annoyed him undertook all the fetching and carrying, never onceshrinking though the sight was a horrible one. At length the footmanbrought word that Mrs. Fane-Smith was waiting, and she was obliged togo, reluctantly enough. 

"You'll let me know how he gets on?" she said. 

"Yes, indeed, " he replied, not thanking her directly for her help, butsomehow sending her away with the consciousness that they had passed thebounds of mere acquaintanceship, and were friends for life. 

She found that her aunt had been waylaid by Mr. Cuthbert. 

"If I were the owner of the dog, I should have up our honorable memberfor assault. I believe Miss Raeburn broke her umbrella over the poorthing. "

Erica was just in time to hear this. 

"Were you watching it?" she exclaimed. "And you did nothing to help thefox terrier?"

"I do not feel bound to champion every fighting cur who is gettingthe worst of it, " said Mr. Cuthbert. "What has become of Mr. Farrant'sfavorite? I suppose he is fussing over it instead of studying theaffairs of the nation. "

"I am afraid the dog is dying, " said Erica. 

A curious change passed over Mr. Cuthbert's face; he looked a littleshocked, and turned away somewhat hastily. 

"Come, " thought Erica to herself, "I am glad to have discovered a grainof good in you. "

The next day was Sunday; it passed by very quietly. But on the Monday, when Erica opened the "Daily Review, " there was her "Society" articlestaring her in the face. It was clever and eminently readable, but itwas bitterly sarcastic; she could not endure it. It seemed to her thatshe had written what was positively bad, calculated to mislead and toawaken bitterness, not in the least likely to mend matters. The fact wasshe had written it in a moment of passion and against her conscience, and she regretted it now with far more compunction than she felt foranything she had written in former times in the "Idol-Breaker. " Then, though indirectly and sometimes directly attacking Christianity, she hadwritten conscientiously, now for the first time she felt that she haddishonored her pen. She went down into the very deepest depths. 

The midday post brought her a letter from her stiff old editor, whounderstood her better, and thought more of her than she dreamed. Itinformed her that another member of the staff had returned from hisholiday, and if she pleased she could be exempted from writing for afortnight. As usual Mr. Bircham "begged to remain hers faithfully. "

She hardly knew whether to regard this as a relief or as a punishment. With a sigh she opened a second letter; it was from Charles Osmond, in reply to a despairing note which she had sent off just before herSaturday interview with Mr. Fane-Smith. 

It was one of his short, characteristic letters. 

"Dear Erica, 'It all comes in the day's work, ' as the man said when thelion ate him! You should have a letter, but I'm up to the eyes inparish maters. All I can say is pray for that charity which covers themultitude of sins, and then I think you'll find the Greyshot folk becomemore bearable. So you have met Donovan at last. I am right glad! Yourfather and I had a long walk together yesterday; he seems very well. Yours ever, C. O. "

This made her smile, and she opened a third letter which ran as follows:

"My dear Miss Raeburn, I should have called on you last Saturday, butwas not well enough to come in to Greyshot. My husband told me all aboutyour help and your kindness to our Waif. I know you will be glad to hearthat he is going on well; he is much more to us all than an ordinaryfavorite, some day you shall hear his story. I am writing now to ask, sans ceremonie, if you will come and spend a few days with us. It willbe a great pleasure to us if you will say yes. My husband will be inGreyshot on Monday afternoon, and will call for your answer; please comeif you can. Yours very sincerely, Gladys Farrant. "

Erica showed this letter to her aunt, and of course there was nothing toprevent her going; indeed, Mrs. Fane-Smith was really rather relieved, for she thought a few days' absence might make things more comfortablefor Erica, and, besides, Rose's illness made the days dull for her. 

It was about four o'clock when Donovan Farrant arrived. Erica felt asthough she were meeting an old friend when she went into the drawingroom, and found him standing on the hearth rug. 

"You have had my wife's note?" he asked, taking her hand. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"And you will come?"

"If you will have me. "

"That's right; we had set our hearts on it. You are looking very tired. I hope Saturday did not upset you?"

"No, " said Erica. "But there have been a good many worries, and I havenot yet learned the art of taking life quietly. "

"You are overdone, you want a rest, " said Donovan, whose keen andpracticed observation had at once noticed her delicate physique andpeculiar temperament. "You are a poet, you see, and as a wise man onceremarked: 'The poetic temperament is one of singular irritability ofnerve. '"

Erica laughed. 

"I am no poet!"

"Not a writer of verses, but a poet in the sense of a maker, an artist. As a reader of the 'Daily Review, ' you must allow me to judge. Brianonce showed me one of your articles, and I always recognize them now bythe style. "

"I don't deserve the name of artist one bit, " said Erica, coloring. "Iwould give all I have to destroy my article of today. You have not seenthat, or you would not have given me such a name. 

"Yes, I have seen it; I read it this morning at breakfast, and madeup my mind that you wrote it on Friday evening, after Lady Caroline'sdinner. I can understand that you hate the thing now. One gets a sharplesson every now and then, and it lasts one a life time. "

Erica signed. . He resumed. 

"Well! Are you coming to Oakdene with me?"

"Did you mean now at once today?"

"If you will. "

"Oh, I should so like to!" she cried. "But will Mrs. Farrant beexpecting me?"

"She will be hoping for you, and that is better. "

Erica was noted for the speed with which she could pack a portmanteau, and it could not have been more than ten minutes before she was ready. Mrs. Fane-Smith wished her goodbye with a sort of affectionate relief;then Donovan helped her into the pony carriage, and drove briskly offthrough the Greyshot streets. 

"That is the place where I first heard your father, " he said, indicatingwith his whip the town Hall. "It must be sixteen years ago; I was quitea young fellow. "

"Sixteen years! Did you hear him so long ago as that?" said Erica, thoughtfully. "Why, that must have been about the time of the greatStockborough trial. "

"It was; I remember reference being made to it, and how it stirred meup to think of Mr. Raeburn's gallant defense of freedom, and all that itwas costing him. How well I remember, too, riding home that night alongthis very road, with the thoughts of the good of the race, the love ofhumanity, touched into life for the first time. When a selfish cynicfirst catches a glimpse of an honest man toiling for what he believesthe good of humanity, it is a wonderful moment for him! Mr. Raeburn wasabout the only man living that I believed in. You can understand that Iowe him an immense debt of gratitude. "

"That is what you referred to in the House last year!" said Erica. "Howcuriously lives are linked together! Words spoken by my father years agoset thoughts working in you you make a speech and refer to them. I reada report of your speech in a time of chaotic wretchedness, and it comeslike an answer to a prayer!"

"Another bond between us, " said Donovan. 

After that they were silent; they had left the high road and weredriving along winding country lanes, catching glimpses every now andthen of golden corn fields still unreaped, or of fields just beginningto be dotted with sheaves, where the men were at work. It was a lateharvest that year, but a good one. Presently they passed the tiny littlevillage church which nestled under the brow of the hill, and then came asteep ascent, which made Donovan spring out of the pony chaise. Erica'swords had awakened a long train of thought, had carried him back to thefar past, and had brought him fresh proof of that wonderful unity ofNature which, though often little dreamed of, binds man to man. He gavethe ponies a rest half way up the hill, and, stretching up into the highhedge, gathered a beautiful spray of red-berried briony for Erica. 

"Do you remember that grand thought which Shakespeare puts into themouth of Henry V. "

 "'There is some soul of goodness in things evil. ' 'Tis wonderful to look back in life and trace it out. "

He spoke rather abruptly, but Erica's thoughts had been following muchthe same bent, and she understood him. 

"Trust is easy on such a day as this and in such a place, " she said, looking down to the beautiful valley and up to the green, encirclinghills. 

Donovan smiled, and touched up the ponies. 

It seemed to Erica that they had turned their backs on bigotry, andannoyance, and care of every description, and were driving right intoa land of rest. Presently they turned in at some iron gates, and drovedown a long approach, bordered with fir trees. At the end of this stoodthe manor, a solid, comfortable, well-built country house, its ratherplain exterior veiled with ivy and creepers. Donovan led her into thehall, where stately old high-backed chairs and a suit or two ofold armor were intermixed with modern appliances, fishing tackle, alawn-tennis box, and a sprinkling of toys, which indicated that therewere children in the house. 

This fact was speedily indicated in another way, for there came a rushand a scamper overhead, and a boy of five or six years old ran down thebroad oak staircase. 

"Oh, father! May I ride round to the stables on Speedwell?" he cried, in a desperate hurry to attract his father's attention away from theservant and the portmanteau; then, catching sight of Erica, he checkedhimself, and held out his hand with a sort of shy courtesy. He wasexactly what Donovan must have been as a child, as far as looks went. 

"To the stables, Ralph?" replied his father, looking round. "Yes, if youlike. Put on your hat though. Where's your mother?"

"In the garden with Mr. Cunningham; he came a few minutes ago; and he'sgot such a horse, father! A real beauty just like cocoa. "

"A roan, " said Donovan, laughing; then, as Ralph disappeared through theopen door, he turned to the servant. 

"Is it Mr. Cunningham of Blachingbury?"

"No, sir; Mr. Leslie Cunningham. "

Erica listened, not without interest, for she knew that LeslieCunningham was the recently elected member for East Mountshire, theeldest son of Sir Michael Cunningham. 

"We must come and find them, " said Donovan; and together they went outinto the garden. 

Here, on one of the broad, grassy terraces, under the shade of acopper-beech, was afternoon tea on a wicker table. Gladys was talking toMr. Cunningham, but catching sight of her husband and Erica at the otherend of the terrace, she hurried forward to greet them. 

"This is delightful!" she exclaimed. "I hoped that Donovan mightunceremoniously carry you off today, but hardly dared to expect it. Youare just in time for tea. "

"Your arrival has caused quite a sensation in the nursery, " said Donovanto Leslie Cunningham. "My small boy is in raptures over your horse 'justlike cocoa!'"

Leslie gave rather an absent laugh. He was watching Erica, who was stillat a little distance talking to Gladys. 

"May I be introduced to your guest?" he said. 

"Certainly, " said Donovan. "She is the daughter of Mr. Raeburn. "

Leslie started. 

"Indeed! I have heard about her from old Bircham, the editor. He can'tsay enough of her. "

Apparently Leslie Cunningham could not look enough at her. 

Donovan, thinking of Brian, was perhaps a little vexed at the meeting. However, putting himself into his guest's position, he felt that theadmiration was but natural, and as to Brian if he chose to lose hisheart to such a lovely girl, he must expect to have many rivals. 

Erica's first thought, as she glanced at Leslie Cunningham, was oneof disappointment. He was not the least like his father. However, bydegrees she began to like him--for his own sake. He could not havebeen more than five-and-twenty, and looked even younger; for he wasfair-complexioned and clean-shaven. His thick, flaxen hair, and ratherpallid face were decidedly wanting in color, but were relieved by verydark gray eyes. His features were well cut and regular, and the face wasaltogether a clever as well as an attractive one. 

Erica felt as if she had got into a very delicious new word. The noveltyof a meal AL FRESCO, the lovely view, the beautifully laid out groundswere charming externals; and then there were the deeper enjoymentsthe lovability of her host and hostess; the delightful atmosphere ofbroad-hearted sympathy in which they seemed to live and move, and, aboveall, the restfulness, the freedom of not living in momentary expectationof being rubbed the wrong way by a vexing conversation on religious, or political, or personal topics. It was like a beautiful dream quiteunlike any part of real, waking existence that she had ever beforeknown. The conversation was bright and lively. They talked because theyhad something to say, and wished to say it, and the artificial elementso prevalent in society talk was entirely absent. 

Presently Ralph came out of the house, leading a fairy-like little girlof four years old. 

"Here come the children, " said Gladys. "The hour before dinner is theirspecial time. You have not seen Dolly, have you?"

"Dolly!" The name awoke some recollection of the past in Erica, and, asshe kissed the little girl, she looked at her closely. Yes, it was thesame fascinating little baby face, with its soft, pink cheeks and littlepointed chin, its innocent, blue-gray eyes, its tiny, sweet-temperedmouth. The sunny brown hair was longer and Dolly was an inch or twotaller, but she was undoubtedly the same. 

"Now I know why I always felt that I knew your face!" exclaimed Erica, turning to Donovan. "Was not Dolly lost at Codrington last year?"

"On the beach, " replied Donovan. "Yes! Why, could it have been you whobrought her back? Of course it was! Now it all comes back to me. I hadexactly the same feeling about knowing your face the other evening atLady Caroline's, but put it down to your likeness to Mr. Raeburn. Thereis another bond between us. "

They both laughed. Donovan took Dolly upon his knee. 

"Do you remember, Dolly, when you were lost on the beach once?"

"Yes, " said Dolly, promptly, "I clied. "

"Who found you?"

"Farver, " said Dolly. 

"Who brought you to father?"

Dolly searched her memory. 

"An old gentleman gave Dolly sweets!"

"My father, " said Erica, smiling. 

"And who helped you up the beach?" asked Gladys. 

"A plitty lady did, " said Dolly. 

"Was it this lady, do you think?" said Donovan, indicating Erica. 

Dolly trotted round with her dear little laughing face to make thescrutiny. 

"I fink vis one is plittier, " she announced. Whereupon every one beganto laugh. 

"The most charming compliment I ever heard!" said Leslie Cunningham. "Dolly ought to be patted on the back. "

Erica smiled and colored; but as she looked again at Donovan and littleDolly, her thoughts wandered away to that June day in the museum whenthey had been the parable which shadowed forth to her such a wonderfulreality. Truly, there were links innumerable between her and Donovan. 

Leslie Cunningham seemed as if he intended to stay forever; however, every one was quite content to sit out on the lawn talking and watchingthe children at their play. It was one of those still, soft Septemberevenings when one is glad of any excuse to keep out of doors. 

At last the dressing bell rang, and Leslie took out his watch with anair of surprise. 

"The afternoon has flown!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I wanted to ask you, by the bye, whether I could see the coffee tavernat Greyshot. We are going to start one down at our place, and I want tosee one or two well-managed ones first. Whereabouts is it? I think I'llride on now, and have a look at it. "

"Dine with us first, " said Donovan, "and I'll ride over with you betweeneight and nine, that is the best time for seeing it in full swing. "

So Leslie Cunningham stayed to dinner, and talked a great deal abouttemperance work, but did not succeed in blinding his host, who knew wellenough that Erica had been the real cause of his desire to go over toGreyshot. 

Temperance, however, proved a fortunate subject, for it was, of course, one in which she was deeply interested, all the more so now that itformed one of the strongest bonds remaining between herself and herfather's followers. A large number of the Raeburnites were eitherteetotalers or very strong temperance advocates, and Erica, who wasconstantly out and about in the poorer parts of London, had realizedforcibly the terrible national evil, and was an enthusiastic temperanceworker. 

Donovan, perhaps out of malice prepense, administered a good many drydetails about the management of coffee taverns, personal supervision, Etzenberger's machines, the necessity of a good site and attractivebuilding, etc. , etc. Erica only wished that Tom could have beenthere, he would have been so thoroughly in his element. By and by theconversation drifted away to other matters. And as Leslie Cunningham wasa good and very amusing talker, and Gladys the perfection of a hostess, the dinner proved very lively, an extraordinary contrast to the dreary, vapid table talk to which Erica had lately been accustomed. After theladies had left the room, Donovan, rather to his amusement, foundthe talk veering round to Luke Raeburn. Presently, Leslie Cunninghamhazarded a direct question about Erica in a would-be indifferent tone. In reply, Donovan told him briefly and without comment what he knew ofher history, keeping on the surface of things and speaking always with asort of careful restraint. He was never very fond of discussing people, and perhaps in this case the realization of the thousand objectionsto any serious outcome of Leslie's sudden admiration strengthened hisreserve. However, fate was apparently kinder though perhaps reallymore cruel than the host, for Donovan was summoned into the library tointerview an aggrieved constituent, and Leslie finding his way to thedrawing room, was only too delighted to meet Gladys going upstairs tosee her children. 

The lamps were lighted in the drawing room, but the curtains were notdrawn, and beside the open window he saw a slim, white-robed figure. Erica was looking out into the gathering darkness. He crossed the room, and stood beside her, his heart beating quickly, all the morebecause she did not move or take any notice of his presence. It wasunconventional, but perhaps because he was so weary of the ordinaryyoung ladies who invariably smiled and fluttered the moment heapproached them, and were so perfectly ready to make much of him, thisunconventionality attracted him. He watched her for a minute in silence. She was very happy, and was looking her loveliest. Presently she turned. 

"I think it is the stillness which is so wonderful!" she exclaimed. 

It was spoken with the frankness of a child, with the spontaneousconfidence of the pure child-nature, which instinctively recognizes allthe lovable and trustable. The clear, golden eyes looked right into hisfor a moment. A strange reverence awoke within him. He had seen morebeautiful eyes before, but none so entirely wanting in that unreality ofexpression arising from a wish to produce an effect, none so beautifullysincere. 

"The country stillness, you mean?" he replied. 

"Yes; it is rest in itself. I have never stayed in the country before. "

"Is it possible!" he exclaimed. 

He had often languidly discussed the comparative advantages of Murrenand Zermatt with girls who took a yearly tour abroad as naturally astheir dinner, but to talk to one who had spent her whole life in towns, who could enjoy a country evening so absolutely and unaffectedly, was astrange and delightful novelty. 

"You are one of those who can really enjoy, " he said. "You are notblasee you are one of the happy mortals who keep the faculty ofenjoyment as strongly all through life as in childhood. "

"Yes, I think I can enjoy, " said Erica. "But I suppose we pay for ourextra faculty of enjoyment. 

"You mean by being more sensitive to pain?"

"Yes, though that sounds rather like Dickens's Mrs. Gummidge, when shethought she felt smoky chimneys more than other people. "

He laughed. 

"How I wish you could turn over your work to me, and go to Switzerlandtomorrow in my place! Only I should wish to be there, too, for the sakeof seeing you enjoy it. "

"Do you go tomorrow?"

"Yes, with my father. "

"Ah! How delightful! I confess I do envy you a little. I do long to seesnow mountains. Always living in London makes me--"

He interrupted her with a sort of exclamation of horror. 

"Oh! Don't abuse London!" she said, laughing. "If one must live all theyear round in one place, I would rather be there than anywhere. When Ihear people abusing it, I always think they don't know how to usetheir eyes. What can be more lovely, for instance, than the view fromGreenwich Park by the observatory? Don't you know that beautiful clumpof Scotch firs in the foreground, and then the glimpse of the riverthrough the trees? And then there is that lovely part by QueenElizabeth's oak. The view in Hyde Park, too, over the Serpentine, howexquisite that is on a summer afternoon, with the Westminster towersstanding up in a golden haze. Or Kensington Gardens in the autumn, whenthe leaves are turning, and there is blue mist in the background againstthe dark tree trunks. I think I love every inch of London!"

Leslie Cunningham would have listened to the praises of the BlackCountry, if only for the sake of hearing her voice. 

"Well, as far as England goes, you are in the right place for scenerynow; I know a few lovelier parts than this. "

"What are those lights on the lower terrace?" asked Erica, suddenly. 

"Glow worms. Have you never seen them? Come and look at them nearer. "

"Oh, I should like to!" she said, with the charming enthusiasm andeagerness which delighted him so much. 

To guide her down the steps in the dusky garden, to feel her hand on hisarm, to hear her fresh, naive remarks, and then to recall what DonovanFarrant had just told him about her strange, sad story, all seemed todraw him on irresistibly. He had had three or four tolerably seriousflirtations, but now he knew that he had never before really loved. 

Erica was delighted with the glow worms, and delighted with the dewyfragrance of the garden, and delighted with the soft, balmy stillnessof the night. She was one of those who revel in Nature, and all thatshe said was evidently the overflow of a rapturous happiness, curiouslycontrasting with the ordinary set remarks of admiration, or falselysentimental outbursts too much in vogue. But Leslie Cunningham foundthat the child-likeness was not only in manner, but that Erica had noidea of flirting; she was bright, and merry, and talkative, but she hadno thought, no desire of attracting his attention. She had actuallyand literally come out into the garden to see the glow worms, not tomonopolize the much-run-after young M. P, and as soon as she had seenthem she said she felt cold, and suggested going back again. 

He was disappointed, but the words were so perfectly sincere, so freefrom suspicion of mere conventionality, that there was nothing for itbut to return. Half amused, half piqued, but wholly in love, he speedilyforgot himself in real anxiety. 

"I hope you haven't taken cold, " he said, with great solicitude. 

"Oh, no, " said Erica; "but I want to be careful for the night-schoolwork will be beginning soon, and I must go home fresh for that. "

Something in her words broke the spell of perfect happiness which hadhitherto held him. Was it the mention of her every-day life, with itssurroundings unknown to him? Or was it some faint perception that inthe world of duty to which she referred their paths could not rightlyconverge? A cold chill crept over him. 

"You were quite right, " he said with an involuntary shiver. "It isdecidedly cold out here; the mist rises from the river, I expect, or else your reference to the working-day world has recalled me fromfairy-land. You should not speak of work in such a place as this it isincongruous. "

She smiled. 

"Ernst ist das leben, " she replied quietly. "One can't forget that evenat such a time as this, and in such a place. "

"How is it that some never forget that for a moment, while others neverremember it at all?" he said musingly. 

"Some of us have no excuse for ever forgetting, " she answered "hardly achance either. "

And though the words were vague, they shadowed out to him much of herlife a life never free from sorrow, burdened with constant care andanxiety, and ever confronted by some of the most perplexing worldproblems. A longing to shield, and protect, and comfort her rose in hisheart, yet all the time he instinctively knew that hers was the strongernature. 

It seemed that the seriousness of life was to be borne in upon themspecially that evening, for, returning to the drawing room, they foundDonovan released from his interview, and relating with some indignationthe pitiable story he had just heard. It only reached Leslie Cunninghamin fragments, however over crowding, children sleeping six in a bed, two of them with scarlet fever, no fever hospital, no accommodation forthem, an inspector, medical officer, the board how drearily dry all thedetails seemed to him. He could do nothing but watch Erica's eager facewith its ever-varying play of expression. He hardly knew whether to beangry with Donovan Farrant for alluding to matters which brought a lookof sadness to her eyes, or to thank him for the story which made herface light up with indignation and look, if possible, more beautifulthan before. 

"Don't offer to put up a fever shanty on the lawn, " said Gladys when herhusband paused. 

"I wish we had an empty cottage where we could put them" said Donovan;"but I am afraid all I can do is to bring pressure to bear upon theauthorities. We'll ride over together, Cunningham, and Jack Trevethan, our manager, shall show you the tavern while I rout out this medicalofficer. "

They had had tea; there was no longer any excuse for delaying. Leslie, with an outward smile and an inward sigh, turned to take leave of Erica. She was bending over a basket in which was curled up the invalid foxterrier. For a moment she left off stroking the white and tan head, andheld out her hand. 

"Goodbye, " she said frankly. 

That was all. And yet it made Leslie's heart bound. Was he indeed to goto Switzerland tomorrow? He MUST manage to get out of it somehow. 

And all the way to Greyshot he listened to schemes for the work to bedone next session from the ardent sanitary reformer, though just thenthe devastation of all England would scarcely have roused him so long ashe was assured of the safety of Luke Raeburn's daughter. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. The Happiest of Weeks

 He went in the strength of dependence To tread where his Master trod, To gather and knit together The Family of God. 

 With a conscience freed from burdens, And a heart set free from care, To minister to every one Always and everywhere. Author of Chronicles of the Schonberg Cotta Family

After this came a happy, uneventful week at the manor. Erica oftenthought of the definition of happiness which Charles Osmond had oncegiven her "Perfect harmony with your surroundings. " She had never beenso happy in her life. Waif, who was slowly recovering, grew patheticallyfond of his rescuer. The children were devoted to her, and she to them. She learned to love Gladys very much, and from her she learned a gooddeal which helped her to understand Donovan's past life. Then, too, itwas the first time in her life that she had ever been in a house wherethere were little children, and probably Ralph and Dolly did more forher than countless sermons or whole libraries of theology could havedone. 

Above all, there was Donovan, and the friendship of such a man was athing which made life a sort of wordless thanksgiving. At times evenin those she loved best, even in her father or Charles Osmond, she wasconscious of something which jarred a little, but so perfect was hersympathy with Donovan, so closely and strangely were their lives andcharacters linked together, that never once was the restfulness ofperfect harmony broken Nature and circumstances had, as it wereturned them to each other. He could understand, as no one else couldunderstand, the reversal of thought and feeling which she had passedthrough during the last few months. 

He could understand the perplexities of her present position, suddenlyconfronted with the world of wealth and fashion and conventionalreligion, and fresh from a circle where, whatever the errors heldand promulgated, the life was so desperately earnest, often so noblyself-denying. He knew that Mr. Fane-Smith, good man as he was, must havebeen about the severest of trials to a new-born faith. He understood howMr. Cuthbert's malice would tend to reawaken the harsh class judgmentagainst which, as a Christian, Erica was bound to struggle. He couldfully realize the irritated, ruffled state she was in she was overdone, and wanted perfect rest and quiet, perfect love and sympathy. He andhis wife gave her all these, took her not only to their house, but rightinto their home, and how to do this no one knew so well as Donovan, perhaps because he had once been in much the same position himself. Itwas his most leisure month, the time he always devoted to home and wifeand children, so that Erica saw a great deal of him. He seemed to herthe ideal head of an ideal yet real home. It was one of those homes andthank God there are such! where belief in the Unseen reacts upon thelife in the seen, making it so beautiful, so lovable, that, when you goout once more into the ordinary world you go with a widened heart, andthe realization that the kingdom of Heaven of which Christ spoke doesindeed begin upon earth. 

It is strange, in tracing the growth of spontaneous love, to notice howindependent it is of time. Love annihilates time with love, as withGod, time is not. Like the miracles, it brings into use the aeonialmeasurement in which "one day is a thousand years, and a thousand yearsis one day. " A week, even a few hours, may give us love and knowledgeand mutual sympathy with one which the intercourse of many years failsto give with another. 

The week at Oakdene was one which all her life long Erica looked backto with the loving remembrance which can gild and beautify the mostsorrowful of lives. It is surely a mistake to think that the memoryof past delights makes present pain sharper. If not, why do we allso universally strive to make the lives of children happy? Is it notbecause we know that happiness in the present will give a sort ofreflected happiness even in the saddest future? Is it not because weknow how in life's bitterest moments, its most barren and desolatepaths, we feel a warmth about our heart, a smile upon our lips, whenwe remember the old home days with their eager childish interests andhopes, their vividly recollected pleasures, their sheltered luxurianceof fatherly and motherly love? For how many thousands did the poet speakwhen he wrote

 "The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction. "

A benediction which outlives the cares and troubles of later life whichwe may carry with us to our dying day, and find perfected indeed in thatUnseen, where

 "All we have willed, or hoped, or dreamed of good shall exist, Not its semblance, but itself. "

There was only one bit of annoyance during the whole time; it was on theSunday, the day before Erica was to go back to Greyshot. Gladys was notvery well and stayed at home, but Donovan and Erica went to church withthe children, starting rather early that they might enjoy the lovelyautumn morning, and also that they might put the weekly wreaths on twograves in the little church yard. Donovan himself put the flowers uponthe first, Ralph and Dolly talking softly together about "littleAuntie Dot, " then running off hand in hand to make the "captain's glaveplitty, " as Dolly expressed it. Erica, following them, glanced at theplain white headstone and read the name: "John Frewin, sometimes captainof the 'Metora. '"

Then they went together into the little country church, and all at oncea shadow fell on her heart; for, as they entered at the west end, theclergy and the choristers entered the chancel, and she saw that Mr. Cuthbert was to take the service. The rector was taking his holiday, andhad enlisted help from Greyshot. 

Happily no man has it in his power to mar the Church of England service, but by and by came the sermon. Now Mr. Cuthbert cordially detestedDonovan; he made no secret of it. He opposed and thwarted him on everypossible occasion, and it is to be feared that personal malice hadsomething to do with his choice of a subject for that morning's sermon. 

He had brought over to Oakdene a discourse on the eternity ofpunishment. Perhaps he honestly believed that people could be frightenedto heaven, at any rate he preached a most ghastly sermon, and, whatwas worse, preached it with vindictive energy. The poor, mangled, much-distorted text about the tree lying as it falls was brought to thefore once again, and, instead of bearing reference to universal charityand almsgiving as it was intended to do, was ruthlessly torn from itscontext and turned into a parable about the state of the soul at death. The words "damned" and "damnation, " with all their falsely theologizedsignificance, rang through the little church and made people shudder, though all the time the speaker knew well enough that there were no suchwords in the New Testament. Had he been there himself to see he couldnot have described his material hell more graphically. Presently, leaning right over the pulpit, his eyes fixed on the manor pew justbeneath him, he asked in thundering tones "My brethren, have you everrealized what the word LOST means?" Then came a long catalogue of thosewho in Mr. Cuthbert's opinion would undoubtedly be "lost, " in which ofcourse all Erica's friends and relatives were unhesitatingly placed. 

Now to hear what we sincerely believe to be error crammed down thethroats of a congregation is at all times a great trial; but, when ournearest and dearest are remorselessly thrust down to the nethermosthell, impatience is apt to turn to wrath. Erica thought of her gentle, loving, unselfish mother, and though nothing could alter her convictionthat long ere now she had learned the truths hidden from her in life, yet she could not listen to Mr. Cuthbert's horrible words withoutindignant emotion. A movement from Donovan recalled her. Little Dorothywas on his knees fast asleep; he quietly reached out his hand, took upErica's prayer book which was nearest to him, and wrote a few words onthe fly leaf, handling the book to her. She read them. "Definition ofLOST: not found yet. " Then the anger and grief and pain died away, and, though the preacher still thundered overhead, God's truth stole intoErica's heart once more by means of one of his earliest consecratedpreachers a little child. Once more Dolly and her father were to her aparable; and presently, glancing away through the sunny south window, her eye fell upon a small marble tablet just below it that she had notbefore noticed, and this furnished her with thoughts which outlasted thesermon. 

At the top was a medallion, the profile of the same fine, soldierlylooking man whose portrait hung in Donovan's study, and which wasso wonderfully like both himself and little Ralph. Beneath was thefollowing inscription:

 "In loving Memory of RALPH FARRANT, Who died at Porthkerran, Cornwall, May 3, 18--, Aged 45

 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. "

The date was sixteen years back, but the tablet was comparatively new, and could not have been up more than six years at the outside. Erica wasable partly to understand why Donovan had chosen for it that particulartext, and nothing could more effectually have counteracted Mr. Cuthbert's sermon than the thoughts which it awoke in her. 

Nevertheless, she did not quite get over the ruffled feeling, which wasnow in a great measure physical, and it was with a sense of relief thatshe found herself again in the open air, in the warmth, and sunshine, and gladness of the September day. Donovan did not say a word. Theypassed through the little church yard, and walked slowly up thewinding lane; the children, who had stopped to gather a fine clusterof blackberries, were close behind them. In the silence, every word oftheir talk could be distinctly heard. 

"I don't like God!" exclaimed Ralph, abruptly. 

"Oh, you naughty!" exclaimed Dolly, much shocked. 

"No, it isn't naughty. I don't think He's good. Why, do you think fatherwould let us be shut up in a horrid place for always and always? Coursehe wouldn't. I 'spects if we'd got to go, he'd come, too. "

Donovan and Erica looked at each other. Donovan turned round, and heldout his hand, at which both children rushed. 

"Ralph, " he said, "if any one told you that I might some day leave offloving you, leave off being your father what would you do?"

"I'd knock them down!" said Ralph, clinching his small fist. 

Donovan laughed a little, but did not then attempt to prove thequestionable wisdom of such a proceeding. 

"Why would you feel inclined to knock them down?" he asked. 

"Because it would be a wicked lie!" cried Ralph. "Because I know younever could, father. "

"You are quite right. Of course I never could. You would never believeany one who told you that I could, because you would know it wasimpossible. But just now you believed what some one said about God, though you wouldn't have believed it of me. Never believe anything whichcontradicts 'Our Father. ' It will be our father punishing us now andhereafter, and you may be sure that He will do the best possible for allHis children. You are quite sure that I should only punish you to do yougood, and how much more sure may you be that God, who loves you so muchmore, will do the same, and will never give you up. "

Ralph looked hard at his bunch of blackberries, and was silent. Many thoughts were working in his childish brain. Presently he said, meditatively:

"He did shout it out so loud and horrid! I s'pose he had forgotten about'Our Father. ' But, you see, Dolly, it was all a mistake. Come along, let's race down the drive. "

Off they ran. Erica fancied that Donovan watched them rather sadly. 

"I thought Ralph was listening in church, " she said. "Fancy a child ofhis age thinking it all out like that!"

"Children think much more than people imagine, " said Donovan. "And achild invariably carries out a doctrine to its logical conclusion. 'Tiswonderful the fine sense of justice which you always find in them!"

"Ralph inherits that from you, I should think. How exactly like you heis, especially when he is puzzling out some question in his own mind. "

A strange shadow passed over Donovan's face. He was silent for a moment. 

"'Tis hard to be brave for one's own child, " he said at last. "I confessthat the thought that Ralph may have to live through what I have livedthrough is almost unendurable to me. "

"How vexed you must have been that he heard today's sermon, " said Erica. 

"Not now, " he replied. "He has heard and taken in the other side, andhas instinctively recognized the truth. If I had had some one to say asmuch to me when I was his age, it might have saved me twenty years ofatheism. "

"It is not only children who are repulsed by this, " said Erica. "Orlearned men like James Mill. I know well enough that hundreds of myfather's followers were driven away from Christianity merely by havingthis view constantly put before them. How were they to know that halfthe words about it were mistranslations? How were they to study whenthey were hard at work from week's end to week's end? It seems to medownright wicked of scholars and learned men to keep their light hiddenaway under a bushel, and then pretend that they fear the 'people' arenot ready for it. "

"As though God's truth needed bolstering up with error!" exclaimedDonovan. "As though to believe a hideous lie could ever be rightor helpful! There's a vast amount of Jesuitry among well-meaningProtestants. "

"And always will be, I should think, " said Erica. "As long as peoplewill think of possible consequences, instead of the absolutely true. But I could forgive them all if their idea of the danger of telling thepeople were founded on real study of the people. But is it? How many ofthe conservers of half truths, who talk so loudly about the effect onthe masses, have personally known the men who go to make up the masses?"

"Yes, you are right, " said Donovan. "As a rule I fancy the educatedclasses know less about the working classes than they do about theheathen, and I am afraid, care less about them. You have an immenseadvantage there both as a writer and a worker, for I suppose you reallyhave been brought into contact with them. "

"Yes, " said Erica, "all my life. How I should like to confront Mr. Cuthbert with a man like Hazeldine, or with dozens of others whom Icould name!"

"Why?" asked Donovan. 

"Because no one could really know such men without learning wherethe present systems want mending. If Hazeldine could be shut into Mr. Cuthbert's study for a few hours, and induced to tell the story of hislife, I believe he would have the effect of the ancient mariner on thewedding guest. Only, the worst of it is, I'm afraid the very look of Mr. Cuthbert would quite shut him up. "

"Tell me about him, " said Donovan. 

"It is nothing at second hand, " said Erica. "He is a shoe maker, asgrand-looking a fellow as you ever saw, fond of reading, and verythoughtful, and with more quiet common sense than almost any I ever met. He had been brought up to believe in verbal inspiration that had beenthoroughly crammed down his throat; but no one had attempted to touchupon the contradictions, the thousand and one difficulties which ofcourse he found directly he began to study the Bible. So he puzzled andpuzzled, and got more and more dissatisfied, and never in church heardanything which explained his difficulties. At last one day in hisworkshop a man lent him a number of the 'Idol Breaker, ' and in it was apaper by my father on the Atonement. It came to him like a great lightin his darkness; he says he shall never forget the sudden convictionthat the man who wrote that article understood every one of hisdifficulties, and would be able to clear them right away. The nextSunday he went to hear my father lecture. I believe it would make theveriest flint cry to hear his account of it, to see the look of reverentlove that comes over his face when he says, 'And there I found Mr. Raeburn ready to answer all my difficulties, not holding one at arm'slength and talking big and patronizing for all he was so clever, butjust like a mate. ' That man would die for my father any day hundreds ofthem would. "

"I can well believe it, " said Donovan. Then, after a pause, he added, "To induce Christians to take a fair, unprejudiced look at truesecularism and to induce secularists to take a fair, unprejudiced viewof true Christ-following, seems to me to be the great need of today. "

"If one could!" said Erica, with a long-drawn sigh. 

"If any one can, you can, " he replied. 

She looked up at him quickly, awed by the earnestness of his tone. Wasshe a young girl, conscious of so many faults and failings, conscious ofbeing at the very threshold herself to dare even to attempt such a task?Yet was it a question of daring to attempt? Was it not rather the bitof work mapped out for her, to undertake, perhaps to fail in, but stillbravely to attempt? He heart throbbed with eager yearning, as the visionrose before her. What was mere personal pain? What was injustice? Whatwas misunderstanding? Why, in such a cause she could endure anything. 

"I would die to help on that!" she said in a low voice. 

"Will you live for it?" asked Donovan, with his rare, beautiful smile. "Live, and do something more than endure the Lady Carolines and Mr. Cuthberts?"

Few things are more inspiriting that the realization that we are calledto some special work which will need our highest faculties, our untiringexertions which will demand all that is good in us, and will make growthin good imperative. With the peacefulness of that country Sunday wasinterwoven a delicious perception that hard, beautiful work lay beyond. Erica wandered about the shady Mountshire woods with Gladys and thechildren, and in the cool restfulness, in the stillness and beauty, gota firm hold on her lofty ideal, and rose about the petty vexations andsmall frictions which had been spoiling her life at Greyshot. 

The manor grounds were always thrown open to the public on Sunday, anda band in connection with one of the temperance societies played onthe lawn. Donovan had been much persecuted by the Sabbatarians forsanctioning this; but, though sorry to offend any one, he could notallow what he considered mistaken scruples to interfere with such a boonto the public. Crowds of workingmen and women came each week away fromtheir densely packed homes into the pure country; the place was for thetime given up to them, and they soon learned to love it, to look upon itas a property to which they had a real and recognized share. 

Squire Ward, who owned the neighboring estate, grumbled a good deal atthe intrusion of what he called the "rabble" into quiet Oakdene. 

"That's the worst of such men as Farrant, " he used to say. "They beginby rushing to one extreme, and end by rushing to the other. Such a wantof steady conservative balance! He's a good man; but, poor fellow, he'llnever be like other people, never!"

Mrs. Ward was almost inclined to think that he had been less obnoxiousin the old times. As a professed atheist, he could be shunned andignored, but his uncomfortably practical Christianity had a way ofshaking up the sleepy neighborhood, and the neighborhood did not at alllike being shaken!

CHAPTER XXIX. Greyshot Again

 To what purpose do you profess to believe in the unity of the human race, which is the necessary consequence of the unity of God, if you do not strive to verify it by destroying the arbitrary divisions and enmities that still separate the different tribes of humanity? Why do we talk of fraternity while we allow any of our brethren to be trampled on, degraded or despised? The earth is our workshop. We may not curse it, we are bound to sanctify it. . .. We must strive to make of humanity one single family. Mazzini

Erica's appearance at Lady Caroline's dinner party had caused a sortof storm in a tea cup; the small world of Greyshot was in a stateof ferment, and poor Mrs. Fane-Smith suffered a good deal from theconsciousness that she and her family were the subject of all the gossipof the place. Her little expedients had failed, and she began to reflectruefully that perfect sincerity, plain honesty, would have been the bestpolicy, after all. By the time that a week had passed, however, censureand harsh comments began to give place to curiosity, and the resultof this was that on Monday, which was Mrs. Fane-Smith's "at home" day, Greyshot found it convenient to call in large numbers. 

Erica, returning from Oakdene in the afternoon, found her work awaitingher. Her heart beat rather quickly when, on entering the drawing roomshe found it full of visitors; she half smiled to herself to find suchan opportunity of beginning Donovan's work. And very bravely she setabout it. Those who had come from curiosity not unmixed with malice werewon in spite of themselves; even Mr. Cuthbert, who bore down upon herwith the full intention of making her uncomfortable, found himselfcheckmated as effectually as at Lady Caroline's dinner table, though ina very different way. 

"I think I saw you in church yesterday morning!" he remarked, by way ofintroducing a discordant subject. 

"Yes, " replied Erica, "I have been staying at Oakdene Manor, and had amost delicious time. "

"Sharing Mr. Farrant's philanthropic labors?" asked Mr. Cuthbert, withhis unpleasant smile. 

She laughed. 

"No; I have been thoroughly lazy, and September is their holiday month, too. You would have been amused to see us the other evening all hard atwork making paper frogs like so many children. "

"Paper frogs!" said Mr. Cuthbert, with an intonation that suggestedsarcasm. 

"Yes; have you ever seen them?" asked Erica. "I don't think many peopleknow how to make them. Feltrino taught me when I was a little girl I'llshow you, if you like. "

"Did you ever meet Feltrino?" asked Lady Caroline. 

She knew very little of the Italian patriot. In his life time hehad been despised and rejected, but he was now dead; his biography awell-written one was in all the circulating libraries, and even thosewho were far from agreeing with his political views, had learnedsomething of the nobility of his character. So there was both surpriseand envy in Lady Caroline's tone; she had a weakness for celebrities. 

"I saw him once when I was seven years old, " said Erica. "He knewmy father, and one day we were overtaken by a tremendous shower, andhappened to meet Feltrino, who made us come into his rooms and wait tillit was over. And while they talked Italian politics I sat and watchedhim. He had the most wonderful eyes I ever saw, and presently, lookingup and seeing me, he laughed and took me on his knee, saying thatpolitics must not spoil my holiday, and that he would show me howto make Japanese frogs. Once, when he was imprisoned, and was hardlyallowed to have any books, the making of those frogs kept him from goingmad, he said. "

While she spoke she had been deftly folding a sheet of paper, andseveral people were watching curiously. "Before very long, the frogwas completed, and the imitation proved so clever that there was anunanimous chorus of approval and admiration. Every one wanted to learnhow to make them; the Feltrino frogs became the topic of the afternoon, and Erica fairly conquered the malicious tongues. She was superintendingLady Caroline's first attempt at a frog, when a familiar name made herlook up. 

"Mr. Cunningham Mr. Leslie Cunningham. "

"I thought you were in Switzerland!" she exclaimed, as he crossed theroom and shook hands with her. 

"I never got further than Paris, " he said, smiling. "My brother hasgone instead, and I am going to follow your example and study thebeauties of English scenery. "

Perhaps Greyshot opinion was more conciliated by the long talk with Mr. Leslie Cunningham, M. P. , than even by the Feltrino frogs. To haveLuke Raeburn's daughter suddenly thrust into the midst of their selectsociety at Lady Caroline's dinner was one thing they had one andall shunned her. But when she proved to be, after all, clever andfascinating, and original, when they knew that she had sat on Feltrino'sknee as a little child, above all, when they saw that Leslie Cunninghamwas talking to her with mingled friendliness and deference, they veeredround. Politically, they hated Sir Michael Cunningham, but in societythey were pleased enough to meet him, and in Greyshot, naturally enough, his son was a "lion. " Greyshot made much of him during his stay atBlachingbury, and he found it very convenient just then to be made muchof. 

Hardly a day of that week passed in which he did not in some way meetErica. He met her in the park with her aunt; he sat next to her at anevening concert; he went to the theater and watched her all through"Hamlet, " and came to the Fane-Smith's box between the acts. Yet, desperately as he was in love, he could not delude himself with thebelief that she cared for him. She was always bright, talkative, frank, even friendly, but that was all. Yet her unlikeness to the monotonouslysame girls, whom he was in the habit of meeting, fascinated him more andmore each day. She was to go back to town on the Monday; on Friday it sohappened that she met Leslie Cunningham at a great flower show, and withperfect unconsciousness piqued him almost beyond endurance. Now at lasthe hoped to make her understand his admiration. They discussed "Hamlet, "and he had just brought the conversation adroitly round to the lovescene in the third act, when Erica suddenly dashed his hopes to theground. 

"Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, pausing before a beautiful exotic. "Surely that must be an orchid?"

And the reluctant Leslie found the conversation drifting round tobotany, about which he knew little and cared less. Once more hishopes were raised only to be frustrated. He was sitting besides Mrs. Fane-Smith and Erica, and had managed to stem the tide of the botany. The band was playing. Erica, half listening to the music and halfattending to his talk, looked dreamily peaceful; surely now was thetime! But all at once the clear eyes looked up with their perfectlywide-awake interest, and she exclaimed:

"I do wish the Farrants would come! They certainly meant to be here. Ican't make it out. "

Leslie patiently talked about the member for Greyshot; but, just whenhe hoped he was quit of the subject, Erica gave an exclamation of suchunfeigned delight that a consuming envy took possession of him. 

"Oh, there he is! And Ralph and Dolly, too!"

And in a moment the Oakdene party had joined them, and Leslie saw thathis chances for that day were over. Before long he had made his escape, leaving the grounds not moodily, but with the light of a new and eagerdetermination in his eye. 

Erica, returning from the flower show late in the afternoon, found anote awaiting her, and opened it unconcernedly enough on her way up toher room. But the first glance at it brought a glow of color to her faceand a nameless fear to her heart. She ran on quickly, locked her door, and by the ruddy firelight read in a sort of dumb dismay her first offerof marriage. This then was the meaning of it all. This was the cause ofhis hurried return to England; this had brought her the long talks whichhad been so pleasant, yes, strangely, unaccountably pleasant. Yet, forall that, she knew well enough that she had nothing to give in returnfor the love revealed in every word of the letter. She liked him, likedto talk to him, thought him clever and interesting, but that was all. His wife! Oh, no! Impossible! That could never be! And then, as usual, even in the midst of her strange sense of discomfort and perplexity, there came a flash of humor which made her laugh noiselessly in the dimlight. "Tom would call me Mrs. Sly Bacon!"

But a second reading of the letter made her look grave. She was verymuch puzzled to know how to answer it; how, in refusing, to give himleast pain. There was nothing else to hesitate about, of her own mindshe was quite sure. There was only an hour till post time. She mustwrite at once, and she must write in a way which could not be mistaken. There was not a grain of coquetry about Erica. After some thought shewrote the following lines:

"Dear Mr. Cunningham, Your letter surprised me very much and pained me, too, because in replying I fear I must give you pain. I thank you forthe honor you have done me, but I can never be your wife. Even if Icould return your love, which I can not, it could never be right. Peopleare so prejudiced that the connection of our names might greatly injureyour public work, and, besides, you could not live in the circle inwhich I live, and nothing could ever make it right for me to leave myown people. I can not write as I should like to I can not say what Iwould, or thank you as I would but please understand me, and believe meyours very sincerely, Erica Raeburn. "

Strange enough the writing of that letter, the realization of theimpossibility of accepting Leslie Cunningham's offer, opened out toErica a new region, started her upon a new stage of her life progress. In spite of her trouble at the thought of the pain she must give, therewas an indefinable sense that life and love meant much more than she hadhitherto dreamed of; and, though for the next few days she was a littlegrave and silent, there rang in her ears the refrain:

"Oh, life, oh, beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet. "

She was not sorry that her visit was drawing to a close, although thelast week had gone much more smoothly. Her vigorous nature began to longto return to the working day world, and though she could very honestlythank Mr. Fane-Smith for his kindness, she turned her back on his housewith unmixed satisfaction. 

"And you cannot change your ind as to my suggestion?" he asked sendingoff one parting arrow. 

"I can not, " said Erica, firmly, "he is my father. "

"You must of course make your own choice, " he said with a sigh. "But youare sadly wrong, sadly wrong! In my opinion your father is--"

"Forgive me for interrupting you, " said Erica, "but by your own showingyou have no right to have any opinion whatever about my father. Untilyou have either learned to know him personally, heard him speak, orfairly and carefully studied his writings, you have no grounds to forman opinion upon. "

"But the current opinion is--"

"The current opinion is no more an opinion than yours! It is the viewof most bitter opponents. And, candidly, WOULD you accept the currentopinion held of any prominent statesman by his adversaries? Why, thebest men living are represented as fiends in human shape by theirenemies! And if this is so in political matters, how much more in such acase as my father's!"

Mr. Fane-Smith, who was a well-meaning though narrow man, sighed again;it was always very painful to him to listen to views which did notcoincide with his own. 

"Well, " he said at length, "there is, after all, the hope that you mayconvert him. "

"I hope you do not want me to turn into one of those hateful littleprigs, who go about lamenting over their unregenerate parents, " saidErica, naughtily. Then, softening down, she added, "I think I know whatyou mean perhaps I was wrong to speak like that, only somehow, knowingwhat my father is, it does grate so to put it in that way. But don'tthink I would not give my life for him to come to the light here and nowfor I would! I would!"

She clasped her hands tightly together, and turned quickly away. 

Mr. Fane-Smith was touched. 

"Well, my dear, " he said. "You may be right, after all, and I may bewrong. All my anxiety is only for your ultimate good. "

The train was on the point of starting, he gave her a warm hand shake, and in spite of all that jarred in their respective natures, Erica endedby liking him the best of her new relations. 

CHAPTER XXX. Slander Leaves a Slur

 For slander lives upon succession, Forever housed, where it once gets possession. Comedy of Errors. 

 Not out of malice, but mere zeal, Because he was an infidel. Hudibras

"Blessed old London, how delightful it is to come back to it!" exclaimedErica, as she and Tom drove home from Paddington on the afternoon of herreturn from Greyshot. "Tell the man not to go through the back streets, there's a good boy! Ah, he's doing it of his own accord! Why, the parktrees are much browner than the Mountshire ones!"

"We have been prophesying all manner of evil about your coming back, "said Tom looking her over critically from head to foot. "I believemother thought you would never come that the good Christians down atGreyshot having caught you would keep you, and even the chieftain wasthe least bit in the world uneasy. "

"Nonsense, " said Erica, laughing, "he knows better. "

"But they did want to keep you?"

"Yes. "

"How did you get out of it?"

"Said, 'Much obliged to you, but I'd rather not. ' Enacted Mrs. Micawber, you know, 'I never will, no I never will leave Mr. Micawber. '"

"Mr. Fane-Smith must have been a brute ever to have proposed such athing!"

"Oh, no! Not at all! Within certain limits he is a kind-hearted man, only he is one of those who believe in that hateful saying, 'Men withoutthe knowledge of God are cattle. ' And, believing that, would treatatheists as I should be sorry to treat Friskarina. "

"And what is the world of Greyshot like?"

"It is very lukewarm about public questions, and very boiling hot aboutits own private affairs, " said Erica. "But I have learned now how peoplein society can go on contentedly living their easy lives in the midst ofsuch ignorance and misery. They never investigate, and when any painfulinstance is alluded to, they say, 'Oh! But it CAN'T be true!' Theother day they were speaking of Kingsley's pamphlet, 'Cheap clothes andnasty, ' and one lady said that was quite an evil of the past, that thedifficulty nowadays was to get things at reasonable prices. When I toldher that women only get twopence for doing all the machine work of anulster, and have to provide their machine, cotton, food, light, andfuel, she exclaimed, 'Oh, that is incredible! It must be exaggerated!Such things couldn't be now!' When Aunt Isabel heard that I had knowncases of men being refused admission to a hospital supported bypublic subscriptions, on the ground of their atheism, she said it wasimpossible. And as to physical ill treatment, or, in fact, any injusticehaving ever been shown by Christian to atheist, she would not hear ofit. It was always 'My dear, the atmosphere in which you have lived hasdistorted your vision, ' or, 'You have been told, my dear, that thesethings were so!' To tell her that they were facts which could beverified was not the smallest good, for she wouldn't so much as touchany publication connected with secularism. "

"None are so blind as those who will not see, " said Tom. "They will goon in this way till some great national crisis, some crash which theycan't ignore, wakes them up from their comfortable state. 'It can't betrue, ' is no doubt a capital narcotic. "

"Father is at home, I suppose? How do you think he is?"

"Oh, very well, but fearfully busy. The 'Miracles' trial will probablycome on in November. "

Erica sighed. There was a silence. She looked out rather sadly at thefamiliar Oxford Street shops. 

"You have not come back approving of the Blasphemy Laws, I hope?" saidTom, misinterpreting her sigh. 

Her eyes flashed. 

"Of course not!" she said, emphatically. 

"Mr. Osmond has, as usual, been getting into hot water for speaking aword on the chieftain's behalf. "

"Did he speak? I am glad of that, " said Erica, brightening. "I expectMr. Pogson's conduct will stir up a good many liberal Christians intoshowing their disapproval of bigotry and injustice. Ah! Here is the dearold square! The statue looks ten degrees moldier than when I left!"

In fact everything looked, as Erica expressed it, "moldier!""Persecution Alley, " the lodging house, the very chairs and tablesseemed to obtrude their shabbiness upon her. Not that she cared in theleast; for, however shabby, it was home the home that she had longed foragain and again in the luxury and ease of Greyshot. 

Raeburn looked up from a huge law book as she opened the door of hisstudy. 

"Why, little son Eric!" he exclaimed. "You came so quietly that I neverheard you. Glad to have you home again, my child! The room looks as ifit needed you, doesn't it?"

Erica laughed for the study was indeed in a state of chaos. Books werestacked up on the floor, on the mantel piece, on the chairs, on thevery steps of the book ladder. The writing table was a sea of papers, periodicals, proofs, and manuscripts, upon which there floated withmuch difficulty Raeburn's writing desk and the book he was reading, someslight depression in the surrounding mass of papers showing where hiselbows had been. 

"About equal to Teufelsdroch's room, isn't it?" he said, smiling. "Everything united in a common element of dust. ' But, really, after thefirst terrible day of your absence, when I wasted at least an hour inhunting for things which the tidy domestic had carefully hidden, I couldstand it no longer, and gave orders that no one was to bring brush orduster or spirit of tidiness within the place. "

"We really must try to get you a larger room, " said Erica, lookinground. "How little and poky everything looks. "

"Has Greyshot made you discontented?"

"Only for you, " she replied, laughing. "I was thinking of Mr. Fane-Smith's great study; it seems such a pity that five foot three, with few books and nothing to do, should have all that space, and sixfoot four, with much work and many books, be cramped up in this littleroom. "

"What would you say to a move?"

"It will be such an expensive year, and there's that dreadful Mr. Pogsonalways in the background. "

"But if a house were given to us? Where's Tom? I've a letter here whichconcerns you both. Do either of you remember anything about an old Mr. Woodward who lived at 16 Guilford Square?"

"Why, yes! Don't you remember, Tom? The old gentleman whose greenhousewe smashed. "

"Rather!" said Tom. "I've the marks of the beastly thing now. "

"What was it? Let me hear the story, " said Raeburn, leaning back in hischair with a look of amusement flickering about his rather stern face. 

"Why, father, it was years ago; you were on your first tour in America, I must have been about twelve, and Tom fourteen. We had only justsettled in here, you know; and one unlucky Saturday we were playing inthe garden at 'King of the Castle. '"

"What's that?" asked Raeburn. 

"Why, Tom was king, and I was the Republican Army; and Tom was standingon the top of the wall trying to push me down. He had to sing:

 "'I'm the king of the castle! Get down, you dirty rascal!'

And somehow I don't know how it was instead of climbing up, I pushed himbackward by mistake, and he went down with an awful crash into the nextgarden. We knew it was the garden belonging to No. 16 quite a largeone it is for the hospital hasn't any. And when at last I managed toscramble on to the wall, there was Tom, head downward, with his feetsticking up through the roof of a greenhouse, and the rest of him allamong the flower pots. "

Raeburn laughed heartily. 

"There was a brute of a cactus jammed against my face, too, " said Tom. "How I ever got out alive was a marvel!"

"Well, what happened?" asked Raeburn. 

"Why, we went round to tell the No. 16 people. Tom waited outside, because he was so frightfully cut about, and I went in and saw an old, old man a sort of Methusaleh who would ask my name, and whether I hadanything to do with you. "

"What did you say to him?"

"I can't remember except that I asked him to let us pay for the glass byinstallments, and tried to assure him that secularists were not in thehabit of smashing other people's property. He was a very jolly old man, and of course he wouldn't let us pay for the glass though he frightenedme dreadfully by muttering that he shouldn't wonder if the glass and thehonesty combined cost him a pretty penny. "

"Did you ever see him again?"

"Not to speak to, but we always nodded to each other when we passed inthe square. I've not seen him for ages. I thought he must be dead. "

"He is dead, " said Raeburn; "and he has left you three hundred pounds, and he has left me his furnished house, with the sole proviso that Ilive in it. "

"What a brick!" cried Tom and Erica, in a breath. "Now fancy, if wehadn't played at 'King of the Castle' that day!"

"And if Erica had not been such a zealous little Republican?" saidRaeburn, smiling. 

"Why, father, the very greenhouse will belong to you; and such a nicepiece of garden! Oh, when can we go and see it, and choose a nice roomfor your study?"

"I will see Mr. Woodward's executor tomorrow morning, " said Raeburn. "The sooner we move in the better for there are rocks ahead. "

"The 'we' refers only to you and Erica, " said Aunt Jean, who had joinedthem. "Tom and I shall of course stay on here. "

"Oh, no, auntie!" cried Erica in such genuine dismay that Aunt Jean wastouched. 

"I don't want you to feel at all bound to have us, " she said. "Now thatthe worst of the poverty is over, there is no necessity for clubbingtogether. "

"And after you have shared all the discomforts with us, you think weshould go off in such a dog-in-the-mangerish way as that!" cried Erica. "Besides, it really was chiefly owing to Tom, who was the one to gethurt into the bargain. If you won't come, I shall--" she paused tothink of a threat terrible enough, "I shall think again about livingwith the Fane-Smiths. "

This led the conversation back to Greyshot, and they lingered so longround the fire talking that Raeburn was for once unpunctual, and kept anaudience at least ten minutes waiting for him. 

No. 16 Guilford Square proved to be much better inside than a casualpasser in the street would have imagined. Outside, it was certainly agrim-looking house, but within it was roomy and comfortable. The lowerrooms were wainscoted in a sort of yellowish-brown color, the upperwainscoted in olive-green. There was no such thing as a wall paper inthe whole house, and indeed it was hard to imagine, when once inside it, that you were in nineteenth-century London at all. 

Raeburn, going over it with Erica the following evening, was a littleamused to think of himself domiciled in such an old-world house. Mr. Woodward's housekeeper, who was still taking care of the place, assured them that one of the leaden pipes outside bore the date of theseventeenth century, though the two last figures were so illegible thatthey might very possibly have stood for 1699. 

Erica was delighted with it all, and went on private voyages ofdiscovery, while her father talked to the housekeeper, taking stock ofthe furniture, imagining how she would rearrange the rooms, and planningmany purchases to be made with her three hundred pounds. She was singingto herself for very lightness of heart when her father called her frombelow. She rand down again, checking her inclination to sing as sheremembered the old housekeeper, who had but recently lost her master. 

"I've rather set my affections on this room, " said Raeburn, leading herinto what had formerly been the dining room. 

"The very place where I came in fear and trembling to make myconfession, " said Erica, laughing. "This would make a capital study. "

"Yes, the good woman has gone to fetch an inch tape; I want to measurefor the book shelves. How many of my books could I comfortably house inhere, do you think?"

"A good many. The room is high, you see; and those two long, unbrokenwalls would take several hundred. Ah! Here is the measuring tape. Now wecan calculate. "

They were hard at work measuring when the door bell rang, and Tom'svoice was heard in the passage, asking for Raeburn. 

"This way, Tom!" called Erica. "Come and help us!"

But a laughing reference to the day of their childish disaster died onher lips when she caught sight of him for she knew that something waswrong. Accustomed all her life to live in the region of storms, she hadlearned to a nicety the tokens of rough weather. 

"Hazeldine wishes to speak to you, " said Tom, turning to Raeburn. "Ibrought him round here to save time. "

"Oh! All right, " said Raeburn, too much absorbed in planning thearrangement of his treasures to notice the unusual graveness of Tom'sface. "Ask him in here. Good evening, Hazeldine. You are the first tosee us in our new quarters. "

Hazeldine bore traces of having lived from his childhood a hard butsedentary life. He was under-sized and narrow chested. But the face wasa very striking one, the forehead finely developed, the features clearlycut, and the bright, dark eyes looking out on the world with an almostdefiant honesty, a clearness bordering on hardness. 

Raeburn, entirely putting aside for the time his own affairs, and givingto his visitor his whole and undivided attention, saw in an instant thatthe man was in trouble. 

"Out of work again?" he asked. "Anything gone wrong?"

"No sir, " replied Hazeldine; "but I came round to ask if you'd seenthat circular letter. 'Twas sent me this morning by a mate of mine who'slately gone to Longstaff, and he says that this Pogson is sowing thembroadcast among the hands right through all the workshops in the place, and in all England, too, for aught he knows. I wouldn't so much as touchthe dirty thing, only I thought maybe you hadn't heard of it. "

Without a word, Raeburn held out his hand for the printed letter. Erica, standing at a little distance, watched the faces of the three men Tom, grave, yet somewhat flushed; Hazeldine, with a scornful glitter inhis dark eyes; her father? Last of all she looked at him and looking, learned the full gravity of this new trouble. For, as he read, Raeburngrew white, with the marble whiteness which means that intense angerhas interfered with the action of the heart. As he hastily perused thelines, his eyes seemed to flash fire; the hand which still held themeasuring tape was clinched so tightly that the knuckle looked likepolished ivory. 

Erica could not ask what was the matter, but she came close to him. Whenhe had finished reading, the first thing his eye fell upon was her faceturned up to his with a mute appeal which, in spite of the anxiety init, made her look almost like a child. He shrank back as she heldout her hand for the letter; it was so foul a libel that it seemedintolerable to him that his own child should so much as read a line ofit. 

"What is it?" she asked at length, speaking with difficulty. 

"A filthy libel circulated by that liar Pogson! A string of liesinvented by his own evil brain! Why should I keep it from you? It isimpossible! The poisonous thing is sown broadcast through the land. Youare of age there read it, and see how vile a Christian can be!"

He was writhing under the insult, and was too furious to measure hiswords. It was only when he saw Erica's brave lip quiver that he feltwith remorse that he had doubled her pain. 

She had turned a little away from him, ostensibly to be nearer to thegas, but in reality that he might not see the crimson color which surgedup into her face as she read. Mr. Pogson was as unscrupulous as fanaticsinvariably are. With a view of warning the public and inducing them tohelp him in crushing the false doctrine he abhorred, he had tried tostimulate them by publishing a sketch of Raeburn's personal characterand life, drawn chiefly from his imagination, or from distorted andmisquoted anecdotes which had for years been bandied about among hisopponents, losing nothing in the process. Hatred of the man Luke Raeburnwas his own great stimulus, and we are apt to judge others by ourselves. The publication of this letter really seemed to him likely to do greatgood, and the evil passions of hatred and bigotry had so inflamed hismind, that it was perfectly easy for him to persuade himself that thestatements were true. Indeed, he only followed with the multitude todo evil in this instance, for not one in a thousand took the troubleto verify their facts, or even their quotations, when speaking of, orquoting Raeburn. The libel, to put it briefly, represented Raeburn as aman who had broken every one of the ten commandments. 

Erica read steadily on, though every pulse in her beat at double time. It was long before she finished it, for a three-fold chorus was going onin her brain Mr. Pogson's libelous charges; the talk between her fatherand Hazeldine, which revealed all too plainly the harm already doneto the cause of Christianity by this one unscrupulous man; and her ownalmost despairing cry to the Unseen: "Oh, Father! How is he ever tolearn to know Thee, when such things as these are done in Thy name?"

That little sheet of paper had fallen among them like a thunderbolt. 

"I have passed over a great deal, " Raeburn was saying when Erica lookedup once more. "But I shall not pass over this! Pogson shall pay dearlyfor it! Many thanks, Hazeldine, for bringing me word; I shall take stepsabout it at once. "

He left the room quickly, and in another minute they heard the streetdoor close behind him. 

"That means an action for libel, " said Tom, knitting his brows. "Andgoodness only knows what fearful work and worry for the chieftain. "

"But good to the cause in the long run, " said Hazeldine. "And as for Mr. Raeburn, he only rises the higher the more they try to crush him. He'slike the bird that rises out of its own ashes the phenix, don't theycall it?"

Erica smiled a little at the comparison, but sadly. 

"Don't judge Christianity by this one bad specimen, " she said, as sheshook hands with Hazeldine. 

"How do Christians judge us, Miss Erica?" he replied, sternly. 

"Then be more just than you think they are as generous as you would havethem be. "

"It's but a working-day world, miss, and I'm but a working-day man. Ican't set up to be generous to them who treat a man as though he wasthe dirt in the street. And if you will excuse me mentioning it, miss, I could wish that this shameful treatment would show to you what adelusion it is you've taken up of late. "

"Mr. Pogson can hurt me very much, but not so fatally as that, " saidErica, as much to herself as to Hazeldine. 

When he had gone she picked up the measure once more, and turned to Tom. 

"Help me just to finish this, Tom, " she said. "We must try to move in asquickly as may be. "

Tom silently took the other end of the tape, and they set to work again;but all the enjoyment in the new house seemed quenched and destroyedby that blast of calumny. They knew only too well that this was but thebeginning of troubles. 

Raeburn, remembering his hasty speech, called Erica into the study themoment he heard her return. He was still very pale, and with a curiouslyrigid look about his face. 

"I was right, you see, in my prophecy of rocks ahead, " he exclaimed, throwing down his pen. "You have come home to a rough time, Erica, andto an overharassed father. "

"The more harassed the father, the more reason that he should have achild to help him, " said Erica, sitting down on the arm of his chair, and putting back the masses of white hair which hung over his forehead. 

"Oh, child!" he said, with a sigh, "if I can but keep a cool head and abroad heart through the years of trouble before us!"

"Years!" exclaimed Erica, dismayed. 

"This affair may drag on almost indefinitely, and a personal strife isapt to be lowering. "

"Yes, " said Erica, musingly, "to be libeled does set one's back updreadfully, and to be much praised humbles one to the very dust. "

"What will the Fane-Smiths say to this? Will they believe it of me?"

"I can't tell, " said Erica, hesitatingly. 

"'He that's evil deemed is half hanged, '" said Raeburn bitterly. "Neverwas there a truer saying than that. "

"'Blaw the wind ne'er so fast, it will lown at the last'" quoted Erica, smiling. "Equally true, PADRE MIO. "

"Yes, dear, " he said quietly, "but not in my life time. You see if Ilet this pass, the lies will be circulated, and they'll say I can'tcontradict them. If I bring an action against the fellow, people willsay I do it to flaunt my opinions in the face of the public. As yourhero Livingstone once remarked, 'Isn't it interesting to get blamed foreverything?' However, we must make the best of it. How about the newhouse? When can we settle in? I feel a longing for that study with itstwenty-two feet o' length for pacing!"

"What are your engagements?" she asked, taking up a book from the table. "Eleventh, Newcastle; 12th, Nottingham; 13th and 14th, Plymouth. Letme see, that will bring you home on Monday, the 15th, and will leave usthree clear days to get things straight; that will do capitally. "

"And you'll be sure to see that the books are carefully moved, " saidRaeburn. "I can't have the markers displaced. "

Erica laughed. Her father had a habit of putting candle lighters inhis books to mark places for references, and the appearance of thebook shelves all bristling with them had long been a family joke, moreespecially as, if a candle lighter happened to be wanted for its properpurpose, there was never one to be found. 

"I will pack them myself, " she said. 

CHAPTER XXXI. Brian as Avenger

 A paleness took the poet's cheek; "Must I drink here?" he seemed to seek The lady's will with utterance meek. 

 "Ay, ay, " she said, "it so must be, " (And this time she spake cheerfully) "Behooves thee know world's cruelty. " E. B. Browning

The trial of Luke Raeburn, on the charge of having published ablasphemous libel in a pamphlet entitled "Bible Miracles, " came on inthe Court of Queen's Bench early in December. It excited a great deal ofinterest. Some people hoped that the revival of an almost obsolete lawwould really help to check the spread of heterodox views, and praisedMr. Pogson for his energy and religious zeal. These were chieflywell-meaning folks, not much given to the study of precedents. Somepeople of a more liberal turn read the pamphlet in question, and weresurprised to see that matter quite as heterodox might be found in manyhigh-class reviews which lay about on drawing room tables, the onlydifference being that the articles in the reviews were written insomewhat ambiguous language by fashionable agnostics, and that "BibleMiracles" was a plain, blunt, sixpenny tract, avowedly written for thepeople by the people's tribune. 

This general interest and attention, once excited, gave rise to thefollowing results: to an indiscriminate and wholesale condemnation of"that odious Raeburn who was always seeking notoriety;" to an immensedemand for "Bible Miracles, " which in three months reached its fiftieththousand; and to a considerable crowd in Westminster Hall on the firstday of the trial, to watch the entrance and exit of the celebrities. 

Erica had been all day in the court. She had written her article forthe "Daily Review: in pencil during the break for luncheon; but, astime wore on, the heated atmosphere of the place, which was crammedto suffocation, became intolerable to her. She grew whiter and whiter, began to hear the voices indistinctly, and to feel as if her arms didnot belong to her. It would never do to faint in court, and vexed as shewas to leave, she took the first opportunity of speaking to her father. 

"I think I must go, " she whispered, "I can't stand this heat. "

"Come now, then, " said Raeburn, "and I can see you out. This witnesshas nothing worth listening to. Take notes for me, Tom. I'll be backdirectly. "

They had only just passed the door leading into Westminster Hall, however, when Tom sent a messenger hurrying after them. An importantwitness had that minute been called, and Raeburn, who was, as usual, conducting his own case, could not possibly miss the evidence. 

"I can go alone, " said Erica. "Don't stop. "

But even in his haste, Raeburn, glancing at the crowd of curious faces, was thoughtful for his child. 

"No, " he said, hurriedly. "Wait a moment, and I'll send some one toyou. "

She would have been wiser if she had followed him back into the court;but, having once escaped from the intolerable atmosphere, she was notat all inclined to return to it. She waited where he had left her, just within Westminster Hall, at the top of the steps leading fromthe entrance to the court. The grandeur of the place, its magnificentproportions, terminating in the great, upward sweep of steps, and themellow stained window, struck her more than ever after coming from thecrowded and inconvenient little court within. The vaulted roof, with itsquaintly carved angels, was for the most part dim and shadowy, but hereand there a ray of sunshine, slanting in through the clerestory windows, changed the sombre tones to a golden splendor. Erica, very susceptibleto all high influences, was more conscious of the ennobling influenceof light, and space, and beauty than of the curious eyes which werewatching her from below. But all at once her attention was drawn to agroup of men who stood near her, and her thoughts were suddenly broughtback to the hard, every-day world, from which for a brief moment she hadescaped. With a quick, apprehensive glance, she noted that among themwas a certain Sir Algernon Wyte, a man who never lost an opportunity ofinsulting her father. 

"Did you see the fellow?" said one of the group. "He came to the doorjust now. "

"And left his fair daughter to be a spectacle to men and angels?" saidSir Algernon. 

Then followed words so monstrous, so intolerable, that Erica, accustomedas she was to discourtesies, broke down altogether. It was so heartless, so cruelly false, and she was so perfectly defenseless! A wave ofburning color swept over her face. If she could but have gone awayhave hidden herself from those cruel eyes. But her knees trembled sofearfully that, had she tried to move, she must have fallen. Sick andgiddy, the flights of steps looked to her like a precipice. She couldonly lean for support against the gray-stone moldings of the door way, while tears, which for once she could not restrain, rushed to her eyes. Oh! If Tom or the professor, or some one would but come to her! Suchmoments as those are not measured by earthly time; the misery seemed toher agelong though it was in reality brief enough for Brian, coming intoWestminster Hall, had actually heard Sir Algernon's shamefulslander, and pushing his way through the crowd, was beside her almostimmediately. 

The sight of his face checked her tears. It positively frightened her byits restrained yet intense passion. 

"Miss Raeburn, " he said, in a clear, distinct voice, plainly heardby the group below, "this is not a fit place for you. Let me take youhome. "

He spoke much more formally than was his wont, yet in his actions heused a sort of authority, drawing her hand within his arm, leadingher rapidly through the crowd, which opened before them. For that onebitter-sweet moment she belonged to him. He was her sole, and thereforeher rightful, protector. A minute more, and they stood in Palace Yard. He hastily called a hansom. 

In the pause she looked up at him, and would have spoken her thanks, butsomething in his manner checked her. He had treated her so exactly asif she belonged to him, that, to thank him seemed almost as absurd asit would have done to thank her father. Then a sudden fear made her sayinstead:

"Are you coming home?"

"I will come to see that you are safely back presently, " he said, in avoice unlike his own. "But I must see that man first. "

"No, no, " she said, beginning to tremble again. "Don't go back. Please, please don't go!"

"I must, " he said, putting her into the hansom. Then, speaking verygently. "Don't be afraid; I will be with you almost directly. "

He closed the doors, gave the address to the driver, and turned away. 

Erica was conscious of a vague relief as the fresh winter wind blewupon her. She shut her eyes, that she might not see the passers-by, onlylonging to get away right away, somewhere beyond the reach of staringeyes and cruel tongues. One evening years ago, she remembered coming outof St. James's Hall with Tom, and having heard a woman in Regent Streetinsulted in precisely the same language that had been used to her today. She remembered how the shrill, passionate cry had rung down the street:"How dare you insult me!" And remembered, too, how she had wonderedwhether perfect innocence would have been able to give that retort. Sheknew now that her surmise had been correct. The insult had struck herdumb for the time. Even now, as the words returned to her with a painintolerable, her tears rained down. It seemed to her that for once shecould no more help crying than she could have helped bleeding when cut. 

Then once more her thoughts returned to Brian with a warmth of gratitudewhich in itself relieved her. He was a man worth knowing, a friend worthhaving. Yet how awful his face had looked as he came toward her. Onlyonce in her whole life had she seen such a look on a man's face. She hadseen it in her childhood on her father's face, when he had first heardof a shameful libel which affected those nearest and dearest to him. She had been far too young to understand the meaning of it, but she wellremembered that silent, consuming wrath; she remembered running away byherself with the sort of half-fearful delight of a child's new discovery"Now I know how men look when they KILL!"

All at once, in the light of that old recollection, the truth dashedupon her. She smiled through her tears, a soft glow stole over her face, a warmth found its way to her aching heart. For at last the love ofseven years had found its way to her. 

She felt all in a glad tumult as that perception came to her. It had, intruth, been an afternoon of revelations. She had never until now in theleast understood Brian's character, never in the least appreciatedhim. And as to dreaming that his friendship had been love from the veryfirst, it had never occurred to her. 

The revelation did not bring her unalloyed happiness for there came asharp pang as she recollected what he had gone back to do. What ifhe should get into trouble on her behalf? What if he should be hurt?Accustomed always to fear for her father actual physical injury, herthoughts at once flew to the same danger for Brian. But, however sickwith anxiety, she was obliged, on reaching home, to try and copy out herarticle, which must be in type and upon thousands of breakfast tables bythe next morning whether her heart ached or not, whether her life wererough or smooth. 

In the meantime, Brian, having watched her cab drive off, turned backinto Westminster Hall. He could see nothing but the one vision whichfilled his brain the face of the girl he loved, a lovely, pure facesuffused with tears. He could hear nothing but that intolerable slanderwhich filled his heart with a burning, raging indignation. Straight asan arrow and as if by instinct, he made his way to the place whereSir Algernon and three or four companions were pacing to and fro. Heconfronted them, bringing their walk to an enforced pause. 

"I am here to demand an apology for the words you spoke just now aboutMiss Raeburn, " he said, speaking in a voice which was none the lessimpressive because it trembled slightly as with a wrath restrained onlyby a great effort. 

Sir Algernon, a florid, light-haired man of about thirty, coolly staredat him for a moment. 

"Who may you be, sir, who take up the cudgels so warmly in MissRaeburn's defense?"

"A man who will not hear a defenseless girl insulted, " said Brian, hisvoice rising. "Apologize!"

"Defenseless girl!" repeated the other in a tone so insufferable thatBrian's passion leaped up like wild fire. 

"You vile blackguard!" he cried, "what you said was an infernal lie, andif you don't retract it this moment, I'll thrash you within an inch ofyour life. "

Sir Algernon laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 

"'Pon my life!" he exclaimed, turning to one of his companions, "if I'dknow that Miss Raeburn--"

But the sentence was never ended for, with a look of fury, Brian sprungat him, seized him by the collar of his coat, and holding him likea vise with one hand, with the other brought down his cane upon theslanderer's shoulders with such energy that the wretch writhed beneathit. 

The on-lookers, being gentlemen and fully aware that Sir Algernondeserved all he was getting, stood by, not offering to interfere, perhaps in their hearts rather sympathizing with the stranger whoserighteous indignation had about it a manliness that appealed to them. Presently Sir Algernon ceased to kick, his struggles grew fainter. Brianlet his right arm pause then, and with his left flung his foe into thecorner as if he had been a mere chattel. 

"There!" he exclaimed, "summons me for that when you please. " And, handing his card to one of Sir Algernon's companions, he strode out ofthe hall. 

By the time he reached Guilford Square he was almost himself again, alittle paler than usual but outwardly quite calm. He went at once toNo. 16. The Raeburns had now been settled in their new quarters forsome weeks, and the house was familiar enough to him; he went up to thedrawing room or, as it was usually called, the green room. The gas wasnot lighted, but a little reading lamp stood upon a table in one of thewindows, and the fire light made the paneled walls shine here and therethough the corners and recesses were all in dusky shadow. Erica had madethis the most home-like room in the house; it had the most beguilingeasy chairs, it had all Mr. Woodward's best pictures, it had fascinatinglittle tables, and a tempting set of books. There was something in thesight of the familiar room which made Brian's wrath flame up once more. Erica's guileless life seemed to rise before him the years of patientstudy, the beautiful filial love, the pathetic endeavor to restrain herchild-like impatience of conventionalities lest scandalmongers shouldhave even a shadow of excuse for slandering Luke Raeburn's daughter. Thebrutality of the insult struck him more than ever. Erica, glancingup from her writing table, saw that his face again bore that look ofintolerable pain which had so greatly startled her in Westminster Hall. 

She had more than half dreaded his arrival, had been wondering how theyshould meet after the strange revelation of the afternoon, had beenthinking of the most trite and commonplace remark with which she mightgreet him. But when it actually came to the point, she could not say aword, only looked up at him with eyes full of anxious questioning. 

"It is all right, " he said, answering the mute question, a great joythrilling him as he saw that she had been anxious about him. "You shouldnot have been afraid. "

"I couldn't help it, " she said, coloring, "he is such a hateful man! Aman who might do anything. Tell me what happened. "

"I gave him a thrashing which he'll not soon forget, " said Brian. "Butdon't let us speak of him any more. "

"Perhaps he'll summons you!" said Erica. 

"He won't dare to. He knows that he deserved it. What are you writing?You ought to be resting. "

"Only copying out my article. The boy will be here before long. "

"I am your doctor, " he said, feeling her pulse, and again assuming hisauthoritative manner; "I shall order you to rest on your couch at once. I will copy this for you. What is it on?"

"Cremation, " said Erica, smiling a little. "A nice funereal subject fora dreary day. Generally, if I'm in wild spirits, Mr. Bircham sends methe very gloomiest subject to write on, and if I'm particularly blue, heasks for a bright, lively article. "

"Oh! He tells you what to write on?"

"Yes, did you think I had the luxury of choosing for myself? Every day, about eleven o'clock a small boy brings me my fate on a slip of paper. Let me dictate this to you. I'm sure you can't read that penciledscribble. "

"Yes, I can, " said Brian. "You go and rest. "

She obeyed him, thankful enough to have a moment's pause in which tothink out the questions that came crowding into her mind. She hardlydared to think what Brian might be to her, for just now she needed himso sorely as friend and adviser, that to admit that other perception, which made her feel shy and constrained with him, would have left herstill in her isolation. After all, he was a seven years' friend, no mereacquaintance, but an actual friend to whom she was her unreserved andperfectly natural self. 

"Brian, " she said presently when he had finished her copying, "you don'tthink I'm bound to tell my father about this afternoon, do you?"

A burning, painful blush, the sort of blush that she never ought to haveknown, never could have known but for that shameful slander, spread overher face and neck as she spoke. 

"Perhaps not, " said Brian, "since the man has been properly punished. "

"I think I hope it need never get round to him in any other way, " saidErica. "He would be so fearfully angry, and just now scarcely a daypasses without bringing him some fresh worry. "

"When will the Pogson affair come on?"

"Oh! I don't know. Not just yet, I'm afraid. Things in the legal worldalways move at the rate of a fly in a glue pot. "

"What sort of man is Mr. Pogson?"

"He was in court today, a little, sleek, narrow-headed man with cold, gray eyes. I have been trying to put myself in his place, and realizethe view he takes of things; but it is very, very hard. You don't knowwhat it is to live in this house and see the awful harm his intoleranceis bringing about. "

"In what way did you specially mean?"

"Oh! In a thousand ways. It is bringing Christianity into discredit, it is making them more bitter against it, and who can wonder. It isbringing hundreds of men to atheism, it is enormously increasing thedemand for all my father's books, and already even in these few monthsit has doubled the sale of the 'Idol-Breakers. ' In old times that wouldhave been my consolation. Oh! It is heart-breaking to see how religiouspeople injure their own cause. Surely they might have learned by thistime that punishment for opinion is never right, that it brings onlybitterness, and misery, and more error! How is one to believe thatthis is right that God means all this bigotry and injustice to go onproducing evil?"

"Surely it will teach the sharp lesson that all pain teaches, " saidBrian. "We Christians have broken His order, have lost the true idea ofbrotherly love, and from this arises pain and evil, which at last, whenit touches our own selfish natures, will rouse us, wake us upsharply, drive us back of necessity to the true Christ-following. Thenpersecution and injustice will die. But we are so terribly asleep thatthe evil must grow desperate before we become conscious of it. It seemsto me that bigotry has at least one mortal foe, though. You are alwayshere; you must show them by your life what the Father is THAT is being aChristian!"

"I know, " said Erica, a look of almost passionate longing dawning in hereyes. "Oh! What a thing it is to be crammed full of faults that hinderone from serving! And all these worries do try one's temper fearfully. If they had but a Donovan to live with them now! But, as for me, I can'tdo much, except love them. "

Brian loved her too truly to speak words of praise and commendation atsuch a time. 

"Is not the love the crux of the whole?" he said quietly. 

"I suppose it is, " said Erica, pushing back her hair from her foreheadin the way she always did when anything perplexed her. "But just atpresent my life is a sort of fugue on Browning's line

 'How very hard it is to be a Christian?'

Sometimes I can't help laughing to think that there was a time when Ithought the teaching of Christ unpractical! Do you mind ringing the bellfor me; the others will be in directly, and will be glad of tea afterthat headachy place. "

"Is there nothing else I can do for you?" asked Brian. 

"Yes, one thing more help me to remember the levers of the second order. It's my physiology class tonight, and I feel, as Tom would express it, like a 'boiled owl. '"

"Let me take the class for you. "

"Oh, no, thank you, " she replied. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. "

It was not till Brian had left that Erica, taking up the article oncremation, was struck by some resemblance in the handwriting. She musthave seen Brian's writing before, but only this afternoon did she makethat fresh discovery. Crossing the room she took from one of the bookshelves a dark blue morocco volume, and compared the writing on the flyleaf with her MS. 

"From another admirer of 'Hiawatha. '" There could be no doubt that Brianhad written that. Had he cared for her so long? Had he indeed loved herall these years? She was interrupted by the maid bringing in the tea. 

"Mr. Bircham's boy is here, miss, and if you please, can cook speak toyou a minute?"

Erica put down the Longfellow and rolled up "Cremation. "

"I'm sure she's going to give warning!" she thought to herself. "What aday to choose for it! That's what I call an anti-climax. "

Her forebodings proved all too true. In a minute more in walked thecook, with the sort of conscious dignity of bearing which means "I am nolonger in your service. "

"If you please, miss, I wish to leave this day month. "

"I shall be sorry to lose you, " said Erica; "what are your reasons forleaving?"

"I've not been used, miss, to families as is in the law courts. I'vebeen used to the best West End private families. "

"I don't see how it can affect you, " said Erica, feeling, in spite ofher annoyance, much inclined to laugh. 

"Indeed, miss, and it do. There's not a tradesman's boy but has his jokeor his word about Mr. Raeburn, " said the cook in an injured voice. "Andlast Sunday when I went to the minister to show my lines, he said amember ought to be ashamed to take service with a hatheist and that Iwas in an 'ouse of 'ell. Those was his very words, miss, an 'ouse of'ell, he said. "

"Then it was exceedingly impertinent of him, " said Erica, "for he knewnothing whatever about it. "

After that there was nothing for it but to accept the resignation, andto begin once more the weary search for that rara avis, "a good plaincook. "

Her interview had only just ended when she heard the front door open. She listened intently, but apparently it was only Tom; he came upstairssinging a refrain with which just then she quite agreed:

 "LAW, law Rhymes very well with jaw, If you're fond of litigation, And sweet procrastination, Latin and botheration, I advise you to go to law. "

"Halloo!" he exclaimed. "So you did get home all right? I like your wayof acting Casabianca! The chieftain sent me tearing out after you, andwhen I got there, you had vanished!"

"Brian came up just then, " said Erica, "and I thought it better not towait. Oh, here comes father. "

Raeburn entered as she spoke. No one who saw him would have guessed thathe was an overworked, overworried man, for his face was a singularlypeaceful one, serene with the serenity of a strong nature convinced ofits own integrity. 

"Got some tea for us, Eric?" he asked, throwing himself back in a chairbeside the fire. 

Some shade of trouble in her face, invisible to any eye but that of aparent, made him watch her intently, while a new hope which made hisheart beat more quickly sprang up within him. Christians had not shownup well that day; prosecuting and persecuting Christians are the mostrepulsive beings on earth! Did she begin to feel a flaw in the systemshe had professed belief in? Might she by this injustice come to realizethat she had unconsciously cheated herself into a belief? If such thingsmight win her back to him, might bridge over that miserable gulf betweenthem, then welcome any trouble, any persecution, welcome even ruinitself. 

But had he been able to see into Erica's heart, he would have learnedthat the grief which had left its traces on her face was the grief ofknowing that such days as these strengthened and confirmed him in hisatheism. Erica was indeed ever confronted with one of the mostbaffling of all baffling mysteries. How was it that a man of such grandcapacities, a man with so many noble qualities, yet remained in thedarkness? One day she put that question sadly enough to Charles Osmond. 

"Not darkness, child, none of your honest secularists who live up totheir creed are in darkness, " he replied. "However mistakenly, they dotry to promote what they consider the general good. Were you in suchabsolute blackness before last summer?"

"There was the love of Humanity, " said Erica musingly. 

"Yes, and what is that but a ray of the light of life promised to allwho, to any extent, follow Christ? It is only the absolutely selfish whoare in the black shadow. The honest atheist is in the penumbra, andin his twilight sees a little bit of the true sun, though he calls itHumanity instead of Christ. "

"Oh, if the shadows would but go!" exclaimed Erica. 

"Would!" he said, laughing gently. "Why, child, they will, they must!"

"But now, I mean! 'Here down, ' as Mazzini would have said. "

"You were ever an impatient little mortal. "

"How can one help being impatient for this, " she said with a quick sigh. 

"That is what I used to say myself seven years ago over you, " he saidsmiling. "But I learned that the Father knew best, and that if we wouldwork with Him we must wait with Him too. You musn't waste your strengthin impatience, child, you need every bit of it for the life before you. "

But patience did not come by nature to a Raeburn, and Erica did not gainit in a day even by grace. 

CHAPTER XXXII. Fiesole

 And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain, To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. E. B. Browning. 

Much has been said and written about the monotony of unalloyed pleasure, and the necessity of shadows and dark places in life as well as inpictured landscape. And certainly there can be but few in this world ofstern realities who would dispute the fact that pleasure is doubled byits contrast with preceding pain. Perhaps it was the vividness of thiscontrast that made Raeburn and Erica enjoy, with a perfect rapture ofenjoyment, a beautiful view and a beautiful spring day in Italy. Behindthem lay a very sombre past; they had escaped for a brief moment fromthe atmosphere of strife, from the world of controversy, from thescorching breath of slander, from the baleful influences of persecutionand injustice. Before them lay the fairest of all the cities of Italy. They were sitting in the Boboli gardens, and from wooded heights lookeddown upon that loveliest of Italian valleys. 

The silver Arno wound its way between the green encircling hills; thenbetween the old houses of Florence, its waters spanned now by alight suspension bridge token of modern times now by old brown archesstrengthened and restored, now by the most venerable looking of all thebridges, the Ponte Vecchio, with its double row of little shops. Intothe cloudless blue sky rose the pinnacles of Santa Croce, the domes ofSan Spirito, of the Baptistery, of the Cathedral; sharply defined inthe clear atmosphere were the airy, light Campanile of Giotto, the moreslender brown tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, the spire of Santa MariaNovella. Northward beyond the city rose the heights of Fiesole, and tothe east the green hills dotted all over with white houses, swept awayinto the unseen distance. 

Raeburn had been selected as the English delegate to attend a certainpolitical gathering held that year at Florence. He had at firsthesitated to accept the post for his work at home had enormouslyincreased; but the long months of wearing anxiety had so told upon himthat his friends had at length persuaded him to go, fully aware that theonly chance of inducing him to take any rest was to get him out of theregion of work. 

The "Miracles" trial was at length over, but Mr. Pogson had not obtainedthe desire of his heart, namely, the imprisonment and fining of LukeRaeburn. The only results of the trial were the extensive advertisementof the pamphlet in question, a great increase of bitterness on eachside, and a great waste of money. Erica's sole consolation lay in thefact that a few of the more liberal thinkers were beginning to seethe evil and to agitate for a repeal of the Blasphemy Laws. As for theaction for libel, there was no chance of its coming on before June, andin the meantime Mr. Pogson's letter was obtaining a wider circulation, and perhaps, on the whole, Luke Raeburn was just at that time thebest-abused man in all England. 

There had been a long silence between the father and daughter whounderstood each other far too well to need many words at such a time;but at length a sudden ejaculation from Raeburn made Erica turn her eyefrom Fiesole to the shady walk in the garden down which he was looking. 

"Does any Italian walk at such a pace?" he exclaimed. "That must surelybe Brian Osmond or his double in the shape of an English tourist. "

"Oh, impossible!" said Erica, coloring a little and looking intently atthe pedestrian who was still at some little distance. 

"But it is, " said Raeburn "height, way of walking, everything! My dearEric, don't tell me I can't recognize the man who saved my life. Ishould know him a mile off!"

"What can have brought him here?" said Erica, a certain joyous tumultin her heart checked by the dread of evil tidings a dread which was butnatural to one who had lived her life. 

"Come and meet him, " said Raeburn. "Ha, Brian, I recognized you ever sofar off, and couldn't persuade this child of your identity. "

Brian, a little flushed with quick walking, looked into Erica's facesearchingly, and was satisfied with what he read there satisfied withthe soft glow of color that came to her cheeks, and with the bright lookof happiness that came into her eyes which, as a rule, were grave, andwhen in repose even sad in expression. 

"I owe this to a most considerate patient who thought fit to be takenill at Genoa and to telegraph for me, " he said in explanation; "andbeing in Italy, I thought I might as well take my yearly outing now. "

"Capital idea!" said Raeburn. "You are the very man we wanted. What withthe meetings and interviews, I don't get much peace even here, and Ericais much in need of an escort sometimes. How did you find us?"

"They told me at the hotel that I should probably find you here, though, if I had known what a wilderness of a place it is I should have beenrather hopeless. "

Erica left most of the talking to her father; just then she felt nowish to put a single thought into words. She wanted only to enjoy theblissful dream-like happiness which was so new, and rare, and wonderfulthat it brought with it the feeling that any very definite thought orword must bring it to an end. Perfect harmony with your surroundings. Yes, that was indeed a very true definition of happiness; and of latethe surroundings had been so grim and stormy. She seemed to tread uponair as they roamed about the lovely walks. The long, green vistas wereto her a veritable paradise. Her father looked so happy, too, and had soentirely shaken off his cares, and Brian, who was usually rather silent, seemed today a perfect fountain of talk. 

Since that December day in Westminster Hall a great change had comeover Erica. Not a soul besides Brian and herself knew anything about thescene with Sir Algernon Wyte. Not a word had passed between them sinceupon the subject; but perhaps because of the silence, that day wasall the more in the thoughts of each. The revelation of Brian'slove revealed also to Erica much in his character which had hithertoperplexed her simply because she had not seen it in the true light. There had always been about him a wistfulness bordering on sadness whichhad sometimes almost angered her. For so little do even intimatefriends know each other, that lives, which seem all peaceful and full ofeverything calculated to bring happiness, are often the ones which arepreyed upon by some grievous trouble or anxiety unknown to any outsider. If he had indeed loved her all those seven years he must have sufferedfearfully. What the suffering had been Erica could, from her presentposition, understand well enough. The thought of it touched herinexpressibly, seemed to her, as indeed it was, the shadow of thatDivine Love which had loved her eternally had waited for her throughlong years had served her and shielded her, though she never recognizedits existence till at length, in one flash of light, the revelation hadcome to her, and she had learned the glory of Love, the murky gloom ofthose past misunderstandings. 

Those were wonderful days that they spent together at Florence, the sortof days that come but once in a life time; for the joy of dawn is quitedistinct from the bright noon day or the calm evening, distinct, too, from that second and grander dawn which awaits us in the Unseen when thenight of life is over. Together they wandered through the long corridorsof the Uffizzi; together they returned again and again to the Tribune, or traversed that interminable passage across the river which leads tothe Pitti Gallery, or roamed about among the old squares and palaceswhich are haunted by so many memories. And every day Brian meant tospeak, but could not because the peace, and restfulness, and glamour ofthe present was so perfect, and perhaps because, unconsciously, he feltthat these were "halcyon days. "

On Sunday he made up his mind that he certainly would speak before theday was over. He went with Erica to see the old monastery of San Marcobefore morning service at the English church. But, though they werealone together, he could not bring himself to speak there. Theywandered from cell to cell, looking at those wonderful frescoes of theCrucifixion in each of which Fra Angelico seemed to gain some freshthought, some new view of his inexhaustible subject. And Brian, watchingErica, thought how that old master would have delighted in the pure faceand perfect coloring, in the short auburn hair which was in itself ahalo, but could not somehow just then draw her thoughts away from thefrescoes. Together they stood in the little cells occupied once bySavonarola; looked at the strange, stern face which Bastianini chiseledso effectively; stood by the old wooden desk where Savonarola hadwritten and read, saying very little to one another, but each consciousthat the silence was one of perfect understanding and sympathy. Thencame the service in a hideous church, which yet seemed beautiful tothem, with indifferent singing, which was somehow sweeter to them thanthe singing of a trained choir elsewhere. 

But, on returning to the hotel, Brian found that his chances for thatday were over for all the afternoon Erica had to receive a constantsuccession of visitors who, as she said, turned her father for the timebeing into the "British lion. " In the evening, too, when they walked inthe Cascine, they were no longer alone. Raeburn went with then, and asthey paced along the broad avenue with the Arno gleaming through thefresh green of the trees, talking of the discussions of the past week, he inadvertently touched the note of pain in an otherwise cloudless day. 

"The work is practically over now, " he said. "But I think I must takea day or two to see a little of Florence. I must be at Salsburg tomeet Hasenbalg by Wednesday week. Can you be ready to leave here onWednesday, Eric?"

"Oh, yes, father, " she said without hesitation or comment but withsomething in her voice which told Brian that she, too, felt a pang ofregret at the thought that their days in that city of golden dreams wereso soon to be ended. 

The Monday morning, however, proved so perfect a day that it dispelledthe shadow that had fallen on them. Raeburn wished to go to Fiesole, andearly in the morning Brian, having secured a carriage and settled theterms with the crafty-looking Italian driver, they set off together. The sunny streets looked sunnier than ever; the Tornabuoni was asusual lively and bustling; the flower market at the base of the PalazzaStrozzi was gay with pinks and carnations and early roses. They droveout of the city, passed innumerable villas, out into the open countrywhere the only blot upon the fair landscape was a funeral train, thecoffin borne by those gruesome beings, the Brothers of the Misericordia, with their black robes and black face cloths pierced only with holes forthe eyes. 

"Is it necessary to make death so repulsive?" said Raeburn. "Our ownblack hearses are bad enough, but upon my word, I should be sorry to becarried to my grave by such grim beings!"

He took off his hat, however, as they passed, and that not merely out ofdeference to the custom of the country but because of the deep reverencewith which he invariably regarded the dead a reverence which in his owncountry was marked by the involuntary softening of his voice when healluded to the death of others, the token of a nature which, thoughstrangely twisted, was in truth deeply reverential. 

Then began the long ascent, the road, as usual, being lined with beggarswho importunately followed the carriage; while, no sooner had theyreached the village itself than they were besieged by at least a dozenwomen selling the straw baskets which are the specialty of Fiesole. 

"Ecco, signor! Ecco signorina! Vary sheep! Vary sheep!" resounded onall sides, each vendor thrusting her wares forward so that progress wasimpossible. 

"What a plague this is!" said Raeburn. "They'll never leave you inpeace, Erica; they are too well used to the soft hearted signorinaInglese. "

"Well, then, I shall leave you to settle them, " said Erica, laughing, "and see if I can't sketch a little in the amphitheatre. They can'ttorment us there because there is an entrance fee. "

"All right, and I will try this bird's eye view of Florence, " saidRaeburn, establishing himself upon the seat which stands on the vergeof the hill looking southward. He was very fond of making pen-and-inksketches, and by his determined, though perfectly courteous manner, heat last succeeded in dismissing the basket women. 

Erica and Brian, in the meantime, walked down the steep little pathwhich leads back to the village, on their way encountering a secondprocession of Brothers bearing a coffin. In a few minutes they had foundtheir way to a quiet garden at the remote end of which, far from thehouses of Fiesole and sheltered on all sides by the green Apennines, wasan old Roman amphitheatre. Grass and flowers had sprung up now on thearena where in olden times had been fearful struggles between men andbeasts. Wild roses and honeysuckle drooped over the gray old building, and in between the great blocks of stone which formed the tiers of seatsfor the spectators sprung the yellow celandine and the white star ofBethlehem. 

Erica sat down upon one of the stony seats and began to sketch theoutline of the hills and roughly to draw in the foreground the furtherside of the amphitheatre and broken column which lay in the middle. 

"Would you mind fetching me some water?" she said to Brian. 

There was a little trickling stream close by, half hidden by bramblebushes. Brian filled her glass and watched her brush as she washed inthe sky. 

"Is that too blue, do you think?" she asked, glancing up at him with oneof her bright looks. 

"Nothing could be too deep for such a sky as this, " he replied, halfabsently. Then, with a sudden change of tone, "Erica, do you rememberthe first day you spoke to me?"

"Under murky London skies very unlike these, " she said, laughing alittle, but nervously. "You mean the day when our umbrellas collided!"

"You mustn't abuse the murky skies, " said Brian, smiling. "If the sunhad been shining, the collision would never have occurred. Oh, Erica!What a life time it seems since that day in Gower Street! I littlethought then that I should have to wait more than seven years totell you of my love, or that at last I should tell you in a Romanamphitheatre under these blue skies. Erica, I think you have known it oflate. Have you, my darling? Have you known how I loved you?"

"Yes, " she said, looking down at her sketch book with glowing cheeks. 

"Oh! If you knew what a paradise of hope you opened to me that day lastDecember and how different life has been ever since! Those were grayyears, Erica, when I dared not even hope to gain your love. But lately, darling, I have hoped. Was I wrong?"

"No, " she said with a little quiver in her voice. 

"You will love me?"

She looked up at him for a moment in silence, a glorious light in hereyes, her whole face radiant with joy. 

"I do love you, " she said softly. 

He drew nearer to her, held both her hands in his, waiting only for thepromise which would make her indeed his own. 

"Will you be my wife, darling?"

But the words had scarcely passed his lips when a look of anguish sweptover Erica's face; she snatched away her hands. 

"Oh! God help me!" she cried. "What have I done? I've been living in adream! It's impossible, Brian! Impossible!"

A gray look came over Brian's face. 

"How impossible?" he asked in a choked voice. 

"I can't leave home, " she said, clasping her hands tightly together. "Inever can leave my father. "

"I will wait, " said Brian, recovering his voice. "I will wait any timefor you only give me hope. "

"I can't, " she sobbed. "I daren't!"

"But you have given it me!" he exclaimed. "You have said you loved me!"

"I do! I do!" she cried passionately. "But, oh, Brian! Have pity on medon't make me say it again I must not think of it I can never be yourwife. "

Her words were broken with sobs which she could not restrain. 

"My darling, " he said growing calm and strong again at the sight of heragitation, and once more possessing himself of her hand, "you have had agreat many troubles lately, and I can quite understand that just now youcould not leave your father. But I will wait till less troubled times;then surely you will come to me?"

"No, " she said quickly as if not daring to pause, "It will always be thesame; there never will be quiet times for us. I can't leave my father. It isn't as if he had other children I am the only one, and must stay. "

"Is this then to be the end of it all?" cried Brian. "My darling, youcan not be so cruel to me. It can not be the end there is no end to loveand we know that we love each other. Erica, give me some future to lookto some hope. "

The terrible pain expressed in every line of his face wrung her heart. 

"Oh, wait, " she exclaimed. "Give me one moment to think. "

She buried her face in her hands, shutting out the sunny Italianlandscape, the very beauty of which seemed to weaken her powers ofendurance. Truly she had been living lately in a golden dream, and thewaking was anguish. Oh, if she had but realized before the meaning ofit all, then she would have hidden her love so that he never would haveguessed it. She would have been to him the Erica of a year ago, just afriend and nothing more. But now she must give him the worst of pain, perhaps ruin his whole life. If she might but give him some promise. What was the right? How were love and duty to be reconciled?

As she sat crouched up in her misery, fighting the hardest battle of herlife, the bell in the campanile of the village church began to ring. It was twelve o'clock. All through the land, in remembrance of the hourwhen the true meaning of love and sacrifice was revealed to the humanrace, there swept now the music of church bells, bidding the people topause in their work and pray. Many a peasant raised his thoughts for amoment from sordid cares or hard labor, and realized that there was anunseen world. And here in the Roman amphitheatre, where a conflict morepainful than those physical conflicts of old time was going on, a soulprayed in agony for the wisdom to see the right and the strength to doit. 

When at length Erica lifted her face she found that Brian was no longerbeside her, he was pacing to and fro in the arena; waiting had grownunbearable to him. She went down to him, moving neither quickly norhurriedly, but at the steady "right onward" pace which suited her wholeaspect. 

"Brian, " she said in a low voice, "do you remember telling me that daythat I must try to show them what the Father is? You must help me now, not hinder. You will help me just because you do indeed love me?"

"You will give me no promise even for the most distant future?"

"I can't, " she replied, faltering a little as she saw him turn deadlywhite. "If there were any engagement between us, I should have to tellmy father of it; and that would only make our trouble his and defeat mywhole object. Oh, Brian, forgive me, and just leave me. I can have givenyou nothing but pain all these years. Don't let me spoil your wholelife!"

His face caught something of the noble purpose which made hers shine inspite of the sadness. 

"Darling, " he said quickly, "I can thank God for you though you arenever to be mine. God bless you, Erica. "

There was a moment's pause; he still kept her hands in his. 

"Tell your father I've gone for a walk over to those hills that I shallnot be home till evening. " He felt her hands tremble, and knew that heonly tortured her by staying. "Will you kiss me once, Erica?" he said. 

She lifted a pale steadfast face and quivering lips to his, and afterthat one long embrace they parted. When he turned away Erica stood quitestill for a minute in the arena listening to his retreating footsteps. Her heart, which had throbbed painfully, seemed now only to echo hissteps, to beat more faintly as they grew less audible. At last camesilence, and then she crept up to the place where she had left hersketch book and paint box. 

The whole world seemed sliding away aching desolation overwhelmed her. Brian's face with its passion and pain rose before her dry, burningeyes. Then darkness came, blotting out the sunshine; the little streamtrickling into its stony basin seemed to grow into a roaring cataract, the waters to rush into her ears with a horrid gurgling; while thestones of the amphitheatre seemed to change into blocks of ice and tofreeze her as she lay. 

A few minutes later she gasped her way painfully back to life. All wasvery peaceful now; the water fell with its soft tinkling sound, therewas a low hum of insects; beside her stony pillow grew some stars ofBethlehem, and in between their delicate white and green she could seethe arena and the tiers of seats opposite, and out beyond the greenencircling hills. Golden sunshine lighted up the dark pines andspirelike cypresses; in the distance there was an olive garden, itssoft, gray-green foliage touched into silvery brightness. 

The beauty of the scene, which in her struggle had seemed to weaken andunnerve her, stole now into her heart and comforted her; and all thetime there rang in her ears the message that the bells had brought her"Who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross. "

"Taking a siesta?" said a voice above her. She looked up and saw herfather. 

"I've rather a headache, " she replied. 

"Enough to give you one, my child, to lie there in the sun withoutan umbrella, " he said, putting up his own to shelter her. "Such aMay noonday in Italy might give you a sunstroke. What was your doctorthinking of to allow it?"

"Brian? Oh, he has gone over to those hills; we are not to wait for him, he wanted a walk. "

"Quite right, " said Raeburn. "I don't think he ought to waste hisholiday in Italian cities, he wants fresh air and exercise after hisLondon life. Where's your handkerchief?"

He took it to the little stream, put aside the overhanging bushes, dipped it in the water, and bringing it back laid it on her burningforehead. 

"How you spoil me, PADRE MIO, " she said with a little laugh that wassadder than tears; and as she spoke she slipped down to a lower stepand rested her head on his knee, drawing down one of his strong hands toshade her eyes. He talked of his sketch, of his word-skirmish with thebasket women, of the view from the amphitheatre; but she did not muchhear what he said, she was looking at the hand that shaded her eyes. That strong hand which had toiled for her when she was a helpless baby, the hand to which she had clung when every out her support had beenwrenched away by death, the hand which she had held in hers when shethought he was dying, and the children had sung of "Life's long day anddeath's dark night. "

All at once she drew it down and pressed it to her lips with a child'sloving reverence. Then she sat up with a sudden return of energy. 

"There, now, let us go home, " she exclaimed. "My head aches a littlestill, but we won't let it spoil our last day but one in Florence. Didn't we talk of San Miniato for this afternoon?"

It was something of a relief to find, on returning, an invitation todinner for that evening which Raeburn could not well refuse. Erica keptup bravely through the afternoon, but when she was once more alone herphysical powers gave way. She was lying on her bed sick and faint andweary, and with the peculiarly desolate feeling which comes to mostpeople when they are ill in a hotel with all the unheeding bustle goingon around them. Then came a knock at her door. 

"Entrate, " she said quickly, welcoming any fresh voice which woulddivert her mind from the weary longing for her mother. A sort of wildhope sprung up within her that some woman friend would be sent to her, that Gladys Farrant, or old Mrs. Osmond, or her secularist friend Mrs. MacNaughton, whom she loved best of all, would suddenly find themselvesin Florence and come to her in her need. 

There entered a tall, overworked waiter. He looked first at her, then atthe note in his hand, spelling out the direction with a puzzled face. 

"Mess Rabi Rabi Rabi Rabi an?" he asked hesitatingly. 

"Grazie, " she replied, almost snatching it from him. The color rushedto her cheeks as she saw the writing was Brian's, and the instant thewaiter had closed the door she tore open the envelope with tremblinghands. 

It was a last appeal, written after he had returned from wandering amongthe Apennines, worn out in body and shaken from the noble fortitude ofthe morning. The strong passionate words woke an answering thrill inErica's heart. He asked her to think it all over once more, he had goneaway too hastily. If she could change her mind, could see any possiblehope for the future, would she write to him? If he heard nothing fromher, he would understand what the silence meant. This was in brief thesubstance of the letter, but the words had a passionate, unrestrainedintensity which showed they had been written by a man of strong natureoverwrought by suffering and excitement. 

He was here, in the very hotel. Might she not write to him? Might shenot send him some sort of message write just a word of indefinite hopewhich would comfort and relieve herself as well as him? "If I do nothear from you, I shall understand what your silence means. " Ah! Butwould he understand? What had she said this morning to him? Scarcelyanything the merest broken bits of sentences, the poorest, coldestconfession of love. 

Her writing case lay open on the table beside the bed with an unfinishedletter to Aunt Jean, begun before they had started for Fiesole. Shesnatched up paper and pen, and trembling so much that she could scarcelysupport herself she wrote two brief lines. 

"Darling, I love you, and always must love you, first and best. "

Then she lay back again exhausted, looking at the poor little weak wordswhich would not contain a thousandth part of the love in heart. Yet, though the words were true, would they perhaps convey a wrong meaningto him? Ought she to send them? On the other hand would he indeedunderstand the silence the silence which seemed now intolerable to her?She folded the note and directed it, the tumult in her heart growingwilder as she did so. Once more there raged the battle which she hadfought in the amphitheatre that morning, and she was not so strong now;she was weakened by physical pain, and to endure was far harder. Itseemed to her that her whole life would be unbearable if she did notsend him that message. And to send it was so fatally easy; she hadmerely to ring, and then in a few minutes the note would be in hishands. 

It was a little narrow slip of a room; all her life long she couldvividly recall it. The single bed pushed close to the wall, the writingtable with its gay-patterned cloth, the hanging wardrobe with glassdoors, the walls trellised with roses, and on the ceiling a painting ofsome white swans eternally swimming in an ultra-marine lake. The window, unshuttered, but veiled by muslin curtains, looked out upon the Arno;from her bed she could see the lights on the further bank. On the wallclose beside her was a little round wooden projection. If it had been arattlesnake she could not have gazed at it more fixedly. Then she lookedat the printed card above, and the words written in French and English, German, and Italian, seemed to fall mechanically on her brain, thoughburning thoughts seethed there, too. 

"Ring once for hot water, twice for the chamber maid, three times forthe waiter. "

Merely to touch that ivory knob, and then by the lightest pressure ofthe finger tips a whole world of love and happiness and rest might openfor her, and life would be changed forever. 

Again and again she was on the point of yielding, but each time sheresisted, and each resistance made her stronger. At length, with afearful effort, she turned her face away and buried it in the pillow, clinging with all her might to the ironwork of the bed. 

For at least an hour the most frightful hour of her life she did notdare to stir. At last when her hands were stiff and sore with that rigidgrasping, when it seemed as if her heart had been wrenched out ofher and had left nothing but an aching void, she sat up and tore bothBrian's note and her reply into a thousand pieces; then, in a weary, lifeless way, made her preparations for the night. 

But sleep was impossible. The struggle was over forever, but the painwas but just begun, and she was still a young girl with the best part ofher life stretching out before her. She did not toss about restlessly, but lay very still, just enduring her misery, while all the every-daysounds came to her from without laughter in the next room from twotalkative American girls, doors opening and shutting, boots thrown down, electric bells rung, presently her father's step and voice. 

"Has Miss Raeburn been up long?"

"Sairtenlee, sair, yes, " replied the English-speaking waiter. "Thesignorina sleeps, doubtless. "

Then came a pause, and in another minute her father's door was closedand locked. 

Noisy parties of men shouting out some chorus sung at one of thetheatres passed along the Lung' Arno, and twanging mandolins wandered upand down in the moonlight. The sound of that harshest and most jarringof all musical instruments was every after hateful to her. She could nothear one played without a shudder. 

Slowly and wearily the night wore on. Sometimes she stole to the window, and looked out on the sleeping city, on the peaceful Arno which wasbathed in silvery moonlight, and on the old, irregular houses, thinkingwhat struggles and agonies this place had witnessed in past times, andrealizing what an infinitesimal bit of the world's sufferings she wascalled to bear. Sometimes she lighted a candle and read, sometimesprayed, but for the most part just lay still, silently enduring, learning, though she did not think it, the true meaning of pain. 

Somewhat later than usual she joined her father the next morning in thecoffee room. 

"Brian tells me he is off today, " was Raeburn's greeting. "It seems thathe must see that patient at Genoa again, and he wants to get a clearfortnight in Switzerland. "

"Is it nor rather early for Switzerland?"

"I should have thought so, but he knows more about it than I do. He haswritten to try to persuade your friend, Mr. Farrant, to join him in theWhitsuntide recess. "

"Oh, I am glad of that, " said Erica, greatly relieved. 

Directly after breakfast she went out with her father, going first ofall to French's bank, where Raeburn had to change a circular note. 

"It is upstairs, " he said as they reached the house. "Don't you troubleto come up; you'll have stairs enough presently at the Uffizzi. "

"Very well, " she replied, "I will wait for you here. "

She stood in the doorway looking out thoughtfully at the busy Tornabuoniand its gay shops; but in a minute a step she knew sounded on thestaircase, and the color rushed to her cheeks. 

"I have just said goodbye to your father, " said Brian. "I am leavingFlorence this morning. You must forgive me for having written lastnight. I ought not to have done it, and I understood your silence. "

He spoke calmly, in the repressed voice of a man who holds "passion ina leash. " Erica was thankful to have the last sight of him thus calm andstrong and self-restrained. It was a nobler side of love than that whichhad inspired his letter nobler because freer from thought of self. 

"I am so glad you will have Donovan, " she said. "Goodbye. "

He took her hand in his, pressed it, and turned away without a word. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. "Right Onward"

 Therefore my Hope arose From out her swound and gazed upon Thy face. And, meeting there that soft subduing look Which Peter's spirit shook Sunk downward in a rapture to embrace Thy pierced hands and feet with kisses close, And prayed Thee to assist her evermore To "reach the things before. " E. B. Browning

"I'm really thankful it is the last time I shall have to get thisabominable paper money, " said Raeburn, coming down the stairs. "Justcount these twos and fives for me, dear; fifteen of each there shouldbe. "

At that moment Brian had just passed the tall, white column disappearinginto the street which leads to the Borgo Ogni Santi. Erica turned tobegin her new chapter of life heavily handicapped in the race for oncemore that deadly faintness crept over her, a numbing, stifling pressure, as if Pain in physical form had seized her heart in his cold clasp. Butwith all her strength she fought against it, forcing herself to countthe hateful little bits of paper, and thankful that her father was toomuch taken up with the arrangement of his purse to notice her. 

"I am glad we happened to meet Brian, " he remarked; "he goes by anearlier train that I thought. Now, little son Eric, where shall we go?We'll have a day of unmitigated pleasure and throw care to the winds. I'll even forswear Vieusseux; there won't be much news today. "

"Let us take the Pitti Palace first, " said Erica, knowing that the freshair and the walk would be the only chance for her. 

She walked very quickly with the feeling that, if she were still for asingle moment, she should fall down. And, luckily, Raeburn thought herpaleness accounted for by yesterday's headache and the wakeful night, and never suspected the true state of the case. On they went, pastfascinating marble shops and jewelers' windows filled with Florentinemosaics, across the Ponte Vecchio, down a shady street, and into therough-hewn, grim-looking palace. It was to Erica like a dream of pain, the surroundings were so lovely, the sunshine so perfect, and her ownheart so sore. 

But within that old palace she found the true cure for sore hearts. Sheremembered having looked with Brian at an "Ecce Home, " by Carlo Dolciand thought she would like to see it again. It was not a picture herfather would have cared for, and she left him looking at Raphael's"Three Ages of Man, " and went by herself into the little room which iscalled the "Hall of Ulysses. " The picture was a small one and had whatare considered the usual faults of the painter, but it was thefirst "Ecce Homo" that Erica had ever cared for; and, whatever theshortcomings of the execution, the ideal was a most beautiful one. The traces of physical pain were not brought into undue prominence, appearing not at all in the face, which was full of unutterable calmand dignity. The deep, brown eyes had the strange power which belongs tosome pictures; they followed you all over the room there was no escapingthem. They were hauntingly sad eyes, eyes in which there lurked griefunspeakable; not the grief which attends bodily pain, but the griefwhich grieves for others the grief which grieves for humanity, forits thousand ills and ignorances, its doubts and denials, its sinsand sufferings. There was no bitterness in it, no restlessness, noquestioning. It was the grief of a noble strong man whose heart is tornby the thought of the sin and misery of his brothers, but who knows thatthe Father can, and will, turn the evil into the means of glorious gain. 

As Erica looked, the true meaning of pain seemed to flash upon her. Dimly she had apprehended it in the days of her atheism, had clung tothe hope that the pain of the few brought the gain of the many; but nowthe hope became certainty, the faith became open vision. For was it notall here, written in clearest characters, in the life of the Ideal Man?And is not what was true for him, true for us too? We talk much about"Christ our example, " and struggle painfully along the uphill road ofthe "Imitation of Christ, " meaning by that too often a vague endeavorto be "good, " to be patient, to be not entirely absorbed in the thingswhich are seen. But when pain comes, when the immense misery and evil inthe world are borne in upon us, we too often stumble, or fail utterly, just because we do not understand our sonship; because we forget thatChristians must be sin-bearers like their Master, pain bearers liketheir Master; because we will let ourselves be blinded by the mystery ofevil and the mystery of pain, instead of fixing our eyes as Christ did, on the joy that those mysteries are sure to bring. "Lo, I come to do Thywill. " And what is the will of even a good earthly father but the bestpossible for all his children?

Erica saw for the first time that no pain she had ever suffered had beena wasted thing, nor had it merely taught her personally some needfullesson; it had been rather her allotted service, her share ofpain-bearing, sin-bearing, Christ-following; her opportunity of doingthe "Will" not self-chosen, but given to her as one of the best of giftsby the Father Himself. 

"Oh, what a little fool I've been!" she thought to herself with thestrange pang of joy which comes when we make some discovery whichsweetens the whole of life, and which seems so self-evident that we canbut wonder and wonder at our dense stupidity in not seeing it sooner. "I've been grudging Brian what God sees he most wants! I've beengroaning over the libels and injustices which seem to bring so much painand evil when, after all, they will be, in the long run, the verythings to show people the need of tolerance, and to establish freedom ofspeech. "

Even this pain of renunciation seemed to gain a new meaning for herthough she could not in the least fathom it; even the unspeakablegrief of feeling that her father was devoting much of his life to thepropagation of error, lost its bitterness though it retained its depth. For with the true realization of Fatherhood and Sonship impatienceand bitterness die, and in their place rises the peace which "passethunderstanding. "

"We will have a day of unmitigated pleasure, " her father had said toher, and the words had at the time been like a sharp stab. But, afterall, might not this pain, this unseen and dimly understood work forhumanity, be in very truth the truest pleasure? What artist is therewho would not gratefully receive from the Master an order to attemptthe loftiest of subjects? What poet is there whose heart would not boundwhen he knew he was called to write on the noblest of themes? All thestruggles, all the weary days of failure, all the misery of consciousincompleteness, all the agony of soul these were but means to the end, and so inseparably bound up with the end that they were no more evil, but good, their darkness over flooded with the light of the workachieved. 

Raeburn, coming into the room, saw what she was looking at, and turnedaway. Little as he could understand her thoughts, he was not the sortof man to wound unnecessarily one who differed from him. His words inpublic were sharp and uncompromising; in debate he did not much care howhe hit as long as he hit hard. But, apart from the excitement ofsuch sword play, he was, when convinced that his hearers were honestChristians, genuinely sorry to give them pain. 

Erica found him looking at a Sevres china vase in which he could not byany possibility have been interested. 

"I feel Mr. Ruskin's wrathful eye upon me, " she said, laughing. "Nowafter spending all that time before a Carlo Dolci, we must really goto the Uffizzi and look at Botticelli's 'Fortitude'. Brian and I nearlyquarreled over it the last time we were there. "

So they wandered away together through the long galleries, Ericapointing out her favorite pictures and hearing his opinion about them. And indeed Raeburn was as good a companion as could be wished for in apicture gallery. The intense development of the critical faculty, whichhad really been the bane of his existence, came here to his aid for hehad a quick eye for all that was beautiful both in art and nature, andwonderfully keen powers of observation. The refreshment, too, of leavingfor a moment his life of excessive toil was great; Erica hoped that hereally did find the day, for once, "unmitigated pleasure. "

They went to Santa Croce, they walked through the crowded market, theyhad a merry dispute about ascending the campanile. 

"Just this one you really must let me try, " said Erica, "they say it isvery easy. "

"To people without spines perhaps it may be, " said Raeburn. 

"But think of the view from the top, " said Erica, "and it really won'thurt me. Now, padre mio, I'm sure it's for the greatest happiness of thegreatest number that I should go up!"

"It's the old story, " said Raeburn, smiling, 'Vain is the hope, by any force or skill, To stem the current of a woman's will; For if she will, she will, you may depend on't, And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on't. '

However, since this is probably the last time in our lives that we shallhave the chance, perhaps, I'll not do the tyrannical father. "

They had soon climbed the steep staircase and were quite rewarded by themagnificent view from the top, a grand panorama of city and river andgreen Apennines. Erica looked northward to Fiesole with a fast-throbbingheart. Yet it seemed as if half a life time lay between thepassion-tossed yesterday and the sad yet peaceful present. Nor was thefeeling a mere delusion; she had indeed in those brief hours lived yearsof the spirit life. 

She did not stay long at that northern parapet; thoughts of her ownlife or even of Brian's would not do just then. She had to think of herfather, to devote herself to him. And somehow, though her heart wassad, yet her happiness was real as they tried together to make out thevarious buildings; and her talk was unrestrained, and even her laughternatural, not forced; for it is possible to those who really love tothrow themselves altogether into the life of another, and to lay asideall thought of self. 

Once or twice that day she half feared that her father must guess allthat had happened. He was so very careful of her, so considerate; andfor Raeburn to be more considerate meant a great deal for in privatehe was always the most gentle man imaginable. His opponents, whooften regarded him as a sort of "fiend in human shape, " were strangelymistaken in their estimate of his character. When treated withdiscourtesy or unfairness in public, it was true that he hit backagain, and hit hard; and, since even in the nineteenth century we areso foolish as to use these weapons against the expression of opinionswe deem mischievous, Raeburn had had a great deal of practice in thisretaliation. He was a very proud and a very sensitive man, not blessedwith overmuch patience. But he held his opinions honestly and hadsuffered much for them; he had a real love for humanity and an almostpassionate desire to better his generation. To such a man it was nolight thing to be deemed everything that is vile; like poor Shelley, he found it exceedingly bitter to let "murderers and traitors takeprecedence of him in public opinion. " People in general took intoaccount all his harsh utterances (and some of them were very harsh), but they rarely thought anything about the provocation received, theexcessively hard life that this man had lived, the gross personalinsults which he had had to put up with, the galling injustice he hadhad to fight against. Upon this side of the question they just turnedtheir backs, pooh-poohed it, or, when it was forced upon their notice, said (unanswerable argument!): "It wouldn't be so!"

When, as they were making the descent, Erica found the strong handstretched out for hers the moment the way grew dark, when she was warnedof the slightest difficulty by, "Take care, little one, a narrow step, "or, "'Tis rather broken here, " she almost trembled to think that, inspite of all her efforts, he might have learned how matters really were. But by and by his serenity reassured her; had he thought that she was introuble his face would not have been so cloudless. 

And in truth Raeburn, spite of his keen observation, never thought fora moment of the true state of the case. He was a very literalunimaginative man, and having once learned to regard Brian as an oldfamily friend and as his doctor, he never dreamed of regarding him inthe light of his daughter's lover. Also, as is not unfrequently the casewhen a man has only one child, he never could take in the fact thatshe was quite grown up. Even when he read her articles in the "DailyReview, " or discussed the most weighty topics with her, she was always"little son Eric, " or his "little one. " And Erica's unquenchable highspirits served to keep up the delusion. She would as often as not enda conversation on Darwinism by a romp with Friskarina, or write a verythoughtful article on "Scrutin de Liste, " and then spring up from herdesk and play like any child with an India-rubber ball nominally keptfor children visitors. 

She managed to tide over those days bravely and even cheerfully forher father's sake. It was easier when they had left Florence withits overbright and oversad memories. Peaceful old Verona was more inaccordance with her state of mind; and from thence they went to Trento, and over the Brenner, passing Botzen and Brixen in their lovely valley, gaining a brief glimpse of the spire-like Dolomito, and graduallyascending the pass, leaving the river and its yellow reeds, andpassing through the rich pasture land where the fields were brightwith buttercups and daisies gold and silver of the people's propertyas Raeburn called them. Then on once more between crimson and purpleporphyry mountains, nearer and nearer to the snowy mountain peaks; andat last, as the day drew to an end, they descended again, and saw downbelow them in the loveliest of valleys a little town, its white housessuffused by a crimson sunset glow. 

"Innsbruck, madame, Innsbruck!" said a fat old Tyrolean man who hadbeen showing them all the beauties of his beloved country throughout thejourney. 

And, though nothing could ever again have for Erica the sweet glamourof an Italian city, yet she was glad now to have seen the last of thatsunny land, and welcomed the homely little place with its matter-of-facthouses and prosperous comfort. She felt somehow that it would be easierto endure now that she was fairly out of Italy. 

The day after their arrival at Innsbruck was Sunday. There was noEnglish service as yet for the season had not begun, but Erica wentto the little Lutheran church, and Raeburn, who had never been toa Lutheran service, went with her for the sake of studying thecongregation, the preacher, and the doctrine. Also, perhaps, because hedid not want her to feel lonely in a foreign place. 

All her life long Erica remembered that Sunday. The peaceful littlechurch with its high pews, where they sat to sing and stood to pray, thehomely German pastor with his plain yet forcible sermon on "Das Gebet, ":the restful feeling of unity which so infinitely outweighed all thetrifling differences, and the comfort of the sweet old German chorales. The words of one of them lingered always in her memory. 

"Fuhlt Seel und Leib ein Wohl ergehen So treib es mich zum Dank dafur;Last du mich deine Werke sehen, So sey mein Ruhmen stets von dir; Undfind ich in der Welt nicht Ruh, So steig mein Schmen Hinmel zu. "

After the service was ended, they wandered out into the public gardenswhere birds were singing round the statue of Walter von der Vogelveice, and a sparrow, to Erica's great delight, perched on his very shoulder. Then they left the town altogether and roamed out into the open country, crossing the river by a long and curiously constructed plank bridge, and sauntering along the valley beneath the snowy mountains, the riverflowing smoothly onward, the birds singing, and a paradise of flowers onevery side. It was quite the hottest day they had had, and they were notsorry to rest in the first shady place they came to. 

"This is the right way to take pleasure, " said Raeburn, enjoying as onlyan ardent lover of Nature can enjoy a mountain view. "Brief snatches inbetween hard work. More than that is hardly admissible in such times asours. " His words seemed to them prophetic later on for their pleasurewas destined to be even briefer than they had anticipated. The hotelat which they were staying was being painted, Erica had a room on thesecond floor, but Raeburn had been put at the top of the house. They hadjust returned from a long drive and were quietly sitting in Erica's roomwriting letters, thinking every moment that the gong would sound forthe six-o'clock TABLE D'HOTE, when a sound of many voices outside madeRaeburn look up. He went to the window. 

"Haloo! A fire engine!" he exclaimed. 

Erica hastily joined him; a crowd was gathering beneath the window, shouting, waving, gesticulating. 

"Why, they are pointing up here!" cried Erica. "The fire must be here!"

She rushed across the room and opened the door; the whole place was inan uproar, people rushing to and fro, cries of "FEUER! FEUER!" a waiterwith scared face hurrying from room to room with the announcement inbroken English, "The hotel is on fire!" or, sometimes in his haste andconfusion, "The fire is on hotel!" For a moment Erica's heart stoodstill; the very vagueness of the terror, the uncertainty as to theextent of the danger or the possibility of escape, was paralyzing. Thenwith the natural instinct of a book lover she hastily picked up two orthree volumes from the table and begged her father to come. He made herput on her hat and cloak, and shouldering her portmanteau, led the waythrough the corridors and down the staircase, steadily forcing a passagethrough the confused and terrified people, and never pausing for aninstant, not even asking the whereabouts of the fire, till he had gotErica safely out into the little platz and had set down her portmanteauunder one of the trees. 

They looked up then and saw that the whole of the roof and the attics ofthe hotel were blazing. Raeburn's room was immediately below and was ingreat danger. A sudden thought seemed to occur to him, a look of dismaycrossed his face, he felt hurriedly in his pocket. 

"Where did I change my coat, Erica?" he asked. 

"You went up to your room to change it just before the drive, " shereplied. 

"Then, by all that's unlucky, I've left in it those papers forHasenbalg! Wait here; I'll be back in a minute. "

He hurried off, looking more anxious than Erica had ever seen him lookbefore. The papers which he had been asked to deliver to Herr Hasenbalgin no way concerned him, but they had been intrusted to his care andwere, therefore, of course more to be considered than the most valuableprivate property. Much hindered by the crowd and by the fire engineitself which had been moved into the entrance hall, he at lengthsucceeded in fighting his way past an unceasing procession of furniturewhich was being rescued from the flames, and pushing his way up thestairs, had almost gained his room when a pitiful cry reached his ears. It was impossible to a man of Raeburn's nature not to turn aside; thepolitical dispatches might be very important, but a deserted child ina burning house outweighed all other considerations. He threw open thedoor of the room whence the cry had come; the scaffolding outside hadcaught fire, and the flames were darting in at the window. Sitting up ina little wooden cot was a child of two or three years old, his baby facewild with fright. 

"Poor bairn!" exclaimed Raeburn, taking him in his strong arms. "Havethey forgotten you?"

The child was German and did not understand a word, but it knew in amoment that this man, so like a fairy-tale giant, was a rescuer. 

"Guter Riese!" it sobbed, appealingly. 

The "good giant" snatched a blanket from the cot, rolled it round theshivering little bit of humanity, and carried him down into the platz. 

"Keep this bairnie till his belongings claim him, " he said, putting hischarge into Erica's arms. And then he hurried back again, once moreran the gantlet of the descending wardrobes and bedsteads, and at lastreached his room. It was bare of all furniture; the lighter things hiscoat among them had been thrown out of the window, the more solid thingshad been carried down stairs. He stood there baffled and for once in hislife bewildered. 

Half-choked with the smoke, he crossed the room and looked out of thewindow, the hot breath of the flames from the scaffolding scorching hisface. But looking through that frame of fire, he saw that a cordon hadbeen drawn round the indiscriminate piles of rescued property, that themilitary had been called out, and that the most perfect order prevailed. There was still a chance that he might recover the lost papers! Then, asthere was no knowing that the roof would not fall in and crush him, hemade the best of his way down again among the still flowing stream offurniture. 

An immense crowd had gathered in the square outside; the awe-struckmurmurs and exclamations sounded like the roar of distant thunder, andthe shouts of "WASSER! WASSER!" alternated with the winding of buglesas the soldiers moved now in one direction, now in another, their brightuniforms and the shining helmets of the fire brigade men flashing hitherand thither among the dark mass of spectators. Overhead the flames ragedwhile the wind blew down bits of burning tinder upon the crowd. Erica, wedged in among the friendly Tyrolese people, watched anxiously forher father, not quite able to believe his assurance that there was nodanger. When at length she saw the tall commanding figure emerge fromthe burning hotel, the white head towering over the crowd, her heartgave a great bound of relief. But she saw in a moment that he had beenunsuccessful. 

"It must have been thrown out of the window, " he said, elbowing his wayup to her. "The room was quite bare, carpet and all gone, nothing to befound but these valuables, " and with a smile, he held up the last numberof the "Idol-Breaker, " and a tooth brush. 

"They are taking great care of the things, " said Erica. "Perhaps weshall find it by and by. "

"We must find it, " said Raeburn, his lips forming into the curve ofresoluteness which they were wont to assume when any difficulty arose tobe grappled with. "What has become of the bairn?"

"A nurse came up and claimed it and was overwhelmingly grateful to youfor your rescue. She had put the child to bed early and had gone for awalk in the gardens. Oh, look, how the fire is spreading!"

"The scaffolding is terribly against saving it, and the wind is high, too, " said Raeburn, scanning the place all over with his keen eyes. Then, as an idea seemed to strike him, he suddenly hurried forward oncemore, and Erica saw him speaking to two fire brigade men. In anotherminute the soldiers motioned the crowd further back, Raeburn rejoinedErica, and, picking up her portmanteau, took her across the road to thesteps of a neighboring hotel. "I've suggested that they should cut downthe scaffolding, " he said; "it is the only chance of saving the place. "

The whole of the woodwork was now on fire; to cut it down was a somewhatdangerous task, but the men worked gallantly, and in a few minutesthe huge blazing frame, with its poles and cross poles, ladders andplatforms, swayed, quivered, then fell forward with a crash into thegarden beyond. 

Raeburn had, as usual, attracted to himself the persons most worthtalking to in the crowd, a shrewd-looking inhabitant of Innsbruck, spectacled and somewhat sallow, but with a face which was full ofintellect. He learned that, although no one could speak positively asto the origin of the fire, it was more than probable that it had been nomere accident. The very Sunday before, at exactly the same hour, a largefactory had been entirely destroyed by fire, and it needed no verydeep thinker to discover that a Sunday evening, when every one wouldbe out-of-doors keeping holiday, and the fire brigade men scattered andhard to summon, was the very time for incendiarism. They learned muchfrom the shrewd citizen about the general condition of the place, whichseemed outwardly too peaceful and prosperous for such wild and senselessoutbreaks. 

"If, as seems probable, this is the act of some crazy socialist, he hasunwittingly done harm to the cause of reform in general, " said Raeburnto Erica when the informant had passed on. "Those papers for Hasenbalgwere important ones, and, if laid hold of by unfriendly hands, might dountold harm. Socialism is the most foolish system on earth. Inevitablyit turns to this sort of violence when the uneducated have seized on itsmain idea. 

"After all, I believe they will save the house, " said Erica. "Just lookat those men on the top, how splendidly they are working!"

It was, in truth, a grand, though a very horrible sight to see the darkforms toiling away, hewing down the burning rafters with an absolutedisregard to their personal safety. These were not firemen, butvolunteers chimney-sweeps, as one of the crowd informed Raeburn and itwas in the main owing to their exertions that the fire was at lengthextinguished. 

After the excitement was over, they went into the neighboring hotel, where there was some difficulty in obtaining rooms, as all theburned-out people had taken refuge there. However, the utmosthospitality and friendliness prevailed, and even hungry Englishmen, cheated of their dinner, were patient for once, while the overtaxedwaiters hurried to and fro, preparing for the second and quiteunexpected table d'hote. Everyone had something to tell either of hisescape or his losses. One lady had seen her night gown thrown out of thewindow, and had managed adroitly to catch it; some one else on rushingup to find his purse had been deluged by the fire engine, and Raeburn'sstory of the little German boy excited great interest. The visitors wereinclined to make a hero of him. Once, when he had left the room, Ericaheard a discussion about him with no little amusement. 

"Who is the very tall, white-haired man?"

"The man who saved the child? I believe he must be the Bishop ofSteneborough; he is traveling in the Tyrol, I know, and I'm sure thatman is a somebody. So much dignity, and such power over everybody!Didn't you see the way the captain of the fire brigade deferred to him?"

"Well, now I think of it, " replied the other, "he has an earnest, devotional sort of face, perhaps you're right. I'll speak to him when hecomes back. Ah!" in a lower voice, "there he is! And Confound it! He'sgot no gaiters! Goodbye to my visions of life-long friendship and acomfortable living for Dick!"

In spite of his anxiety about the lost packet, Raeburn laughed heartilyover Erica's account of this conversation. He had obtained leave tosearch the deserted hotel, and a little before ten o'clock they madetheir way across the square, over planks and charred rafters, brokenglass, and pools of water, which were hard to steer through in thedarkness. The fire was now quite out, and they were beginning to movethe furniture in again, but the place had been entirely dismantled, andlooked eerie and forlorn. On the staircase was a decapitated statue, andbroken and crushed plants were strewn about. Erica's room was quite bareof furniture, nor could she find any of the things she wanted. The penwith which she had been writing lay on the floor, and also a Japanesefan soaked with water, but neither of these were very serviceablearticles to a person bereft of every toilet requisite. 

"I shall have to lie down tonight like a dog, and get up in the morning, and shake myself, " she said, laughing. 

And probably a good many people in Innsbruck were that evening in likecase. 

Notwithstanding the discomforts, however, and the past excitement, thatwas the first night in which Erica had really slept since the day atFiesole, the first night unbroken by dreams about Brian, unhaunted bythat blanched, rigid face, which had stamped its image indelibly uponher brain in the amphitheatre. She awoke, too, without that almostintolerable dread of the coming day which had hitherto made earlymorning hateful to her. It was everything to have an actual andpracticable duty ready to hand, everything to have a busy present whichwould crowd out past and future, if only for a few hours. Also, thedisaster had its comic side. Through the thin partition she could heardistinctly the complaints of the people in the next room. 

"How ARE we to get on with no soap? Do go and see if James has any. "

Then came steps in the passage, and a loud knock at the opposite door. 

"James!"

No answer. A furiously loud second knock. 

"JAMES!"

"What's the matter? Another fire?"

"Have you any soap?"

"Any what?" sleepily. 

"Any SOAP?"

Apparently James was not the happy possessor of that necessary of lifefor the steps retreated, and the bell was violently rung. 

"'What, no soap?'" exclaimed Erica, laughing; "'so he died, and she veryimprudently married the barber, etc. '"

The chamber maid came to answer the bell. 

"Send some one to the nearest shop, please, and get me some soap. "

"And a sponge, " said another. 

"And a brush and comb, " said the first. 

"Oh! And some hair pins, " echoed the other. "Why, destruction! Shedoesn't understand a word! What's the German for soap? Give me 'TravelTalk. '"

"It's burned. "

"Well, then, show her the soap dish! Brush your hair with your hands!This is something between Drum Crambo and Mulberry Bush!"

The whole day was not unlike a fatiguing game of hide-and-seek, and hadit not been for Raeburn's great anxiety, it would have been exceedinglyamusing. Everything was now inside the hotel again, but of course in thewildest confusion. The personal property of the visitors was placed, asit came to light, in the hall porter's little room; but things were tobe met with in all directions. At ten o'clock, one of Raeburn's bootswas found on the third story; in the evening, its fellow turned upin the entrance hall. Distracted tourists were to be seen in alldirections, burrowing under heaps of clothes, or vainly openingcupboards and drawers, and the delight of finding even the most triflingpossession was great. For hours Raeburn and Erica searched for the lostpapers in vain. At length, in the evening, the coat was found; but, alas! The pocket was empty. 

"The envelope must have been taken out, " said Erica. "Was it directed?"

"Unfortunately, yes, " said Raeburn. "But, after all, there is still achance that it may have tumbled out as the coat fell. If so, we may findit elsewhere. I've great faith in the honesty of these Innsbruck people, notwithstanding the craze of some of them that property is theft. Thatworthy man yesterday was right, I expect. I hear that the proprietor hadhad a threatening letter not long ago to this effect:

 "'Sein thun unser Dreissig, Schuren thun wir fleissig. Dem Armen that's nichts Dem Reichen schad's nichts. 

That is tolerably unmistakable, I think. I'll have it in next week's'Idol, ' with an article on the folly of socialism. "

Judicious offers of reward failed to bring the papers to light, andRaeburn was so much vexed about it, and so determined to search everynook and cranny of the hotel, that it was hard to get him away even formeals. Erica could not help feeling that it was hard that the brief daysof relaxation he had allowed himself should be so entirely spoiled. 

"Now, if I were a model daughter, I should dream where to find thething, " she said, laughingly, as she wished him good night. 

She did not dream at all, but she was up as soon as it was light, searching once more with minute faithfulness in every part of the hotel. At length she came to a room piled from floor to ceiling with linen, blankets, and coverlets. 

"Have all these been shaken?" she asked of the maid servant who had beenhelping her. 

"Well, not shaken, I think, " owned the servant. "We were in a hurry, yousee; but they are all fresh folded. "

"It might have slipped into one of them, " said Erica. "Help me to shakeevery one of these, and I will give you two gulden. "

It was hard work, and somewhat hopeless work; but Erica set about itwith all the earnestness and thoroughness of her Raeburn nature, and atlength came her reward. At the very bottom of the huge pile they cameto a counterpane, and, as they opened it, out fell the large, thickenvelope directed to Herr Hasenbalg. With a cry of joy, Erica snatchedit up, pressed double the reward into the hands of the delightedservant, and flew in search of her father. She found him groping in agreat heap of miscellaneous goods in the porter's room. 

"I've found my razors, " he said, looking up, "and everytwopenny-halfpenny thing out of my traveling bag; but the papers, ofcourse, are nowhere. "

"What's your definition of 'nowhere'?" asked Erica, laughingly coveringhis eyes while she slipped the envelope into his hand. 

His look of relief made her happier than she had been for days. He stoodup quickly, and turned the envelope over to see that it had not beentampered with. 

"This is my definition of a dear, good bairn, " he said, putting his handon her head. "You have taken a hundred-weight off my heart, Eric. Wheredid you find it?"

She described her search to him. 

"Well, now, nothing will satisfy me but a mountain, " said Raeburn. "Areyou too tired? We could have a good climb before dinner. "

"Oh, let us!" she exclaimed. "I have had such a longing to get nearerthe snow. "

Each felt that the holiday had now begun. They threw care to the winds, and gave themselves up altogether to the enjoyment of the loveliest walkthey had ever taken. Crossing the Kreuzer bridge, they made their waypast little wooden chalets, through groves of oak where the sunlightcame flickering in between the leaves, through pine woods whose longvistas were solemn as cathedral aisles, until at last they gained thesummit of the lower range of hills, from which was a glorious viewon every hand. Down below lay the little town which would be forevermemorable to them; while above them rose the grand chain of snowymountains which still seemed as lofty and unapproachable as ever, thoughthey themselves were on high ground. Soft and velvety and green laythat great upward sweep in the sunshine, shaded in some places by a darkpatch of pines, or gleaming with a heap of fallen snow. Here and theresome deep rugged cleft would be filled from top to bottom with thegleaming whiteness, while above, crowning the steep and barren height, the snow reigned supreme, unmelted as yet even by the hot May sun. 

And Erica was, in spite of her sorrow, unfeignedly happy. She could notbe sad when her father was so thoroughly enjoying himself, when for oncehe was altogether removed from the baleful influences of hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Here instead of sweeping denunciations, which invariably drove him, as they drove even the patient Job, to anassertion of his own righteousness there was the silent yet most realteaching of Nature; and he must be a small-souled man, indeed, who, in the presence of grand mountain scenery, can not forget his ownpersonality, realizing the infinite beauty and the unspeakable greatnessof nature. Erica's father was unquestionably a large-souled man, inevery sense of the word, a great man; but the best man in the world isto a great extent dependent on circumstance, and the circumstances ofRaeburn's life had been exceptionally hard. Only two things on earthacted as a check upon the one great fault which marred an otherwise finecharacter. Beauty of scenery made him for the time being as humble asa child, and the devotion of his own followers sometimes made him askhimself whether he were worthy of such love. 

The following day the papers, which had caused them so much trouble andanxiety, were safely delivered to Herr Hasenbalg at Salzburg; and thencame one more perfect holiday. In the months that followed, Erica lovedjust to shut her eyes and forget a sad or stormy present, to call uponce more the remembrance of that time. To the minutest details shealways remembered it. The start in the early morning, which had seemedcloudy and unpromising, the long, beautiful drive to Berchtesgaden, and on beyond to the Konigsee. The perfect and unbroken calm of thatloveliest of lakes, so jealously guarded by its chain of mountains thatonly in two places is it possible to effect a landing. The dark pinesand silvery birches clothing the sides of the mountains; the graylimestone cliffs rising step and sheer from the water, in which theirslim, green skiff glided swiftly on, the oars, which were more likelong, brown spades, pulled by a man and woman, who took it in turnsto sit and stand; the man with gay tie and waistband, Tyrolese hat andwaving feather; the woman wearing a similar hat over a gayly embroideredhead-dress, ample white sleeves, a square-cut bodice, and blue plaidskirt. 

Here and there a group of light-green larches just caught the sunshine, or a little boat coming in the opposite direction would suddenly glideround one of the bends in the lake, its oars splashing a wide line ofsilvery brightness in the calm water, in vivid contrast to the dark-blueprow. Then, as they rounded one of the abrupt curves came a gloriousview of snow mountains blue shadows below, and above, in the sunshine, the most dazzling whiteness, while close to the water from the sheerprecipice of gray rock, sprung here and there a hardy pine. 

They landed beside a quaint little church with cupolas, and had anexquisite walk through the woods just at the foot of the mountains wherethe wealth of gentians and other Alpine flowers made Raeburn's felicitycomplete. 

Presently came the return to the little boat, and a quiet row back tothe landing place where their carriage awaited them. And then followedthe delightful drive home, past the river which tossed its green watershere and there into snow-like wreaths of foam, over quaint and shakywooden bridges, between gray rocks and groves of plane trees whosetrunks were half veiled in golden-brown moss. Then on beneath a hillcatching faraway glimpses of a darkened and mysterious sky through theforest of stems. Then past larger and taller pine trees which, standingfurther apart, let in more sky, and left space for the brown earth tobe flecked with sunshine. And here, in the most peaceful of all countryregions, they met a handsome-looking peasant in gay Tyrolean attire muchadorned with silver chains since it was Ascension day and a festival. Hewas leading by the hand his little daughter. 

"That is a peaceful lot, " said Raeburn glancing at them. "Would we liketo change places with them, little son Eric?"

She laughed and shook her head and fell, nevertheless, into a reverie, wondering what such a character as her father's would have been underless hard circumstances, trying to picture a possible life in thatsheltered green valley. All was so perfectly peaceful; the very rivergrew broader and calmer, cattle grazed by the road side, women walkedslowly along with their knitting in their hands, the fruit trees werewhite with blossom. As they reached the pretty village of Berchtesgadenthe sun was setting, the square comfortable-looking white houses withtheir broad, dark eaves and balconies were bathed in a rosy glow, thetwo spires of the little church stood out darkly against the eveningsky; in the platz women were filling their pitchers at a stone fountainmade in the shape of a rampant lion while others were kneeling beforethe calvary at the entrance to the village, praying with the reverencewhich is one of the characteristics of the Tyrolese. Towering above allin the background rose the two Wartzmann peaks, standing there white andmajestic like guardian angels. 

"What foolish being called seven the perfect number?" said Raeburn, turning back from a last look at the twin mountains which were nowassuming their cloud caps. "Two is the perfect number, is it not, littleone?"

She smiled and slipped her hand into his. 

Then came a wild, desolate part of the road, which passed through avalley shut in on all sides by mountains, some of them snowy, all wildand precipitous, and looking strangely desolate in the falling light. Erica could not help contrasting it with the view from the amphitheatreat Fiesole, of that wider amphitheatre of green hills all glowing withlight and love. But presently came more peaceful glimpses; pretty littleSchellenburg with its serpentine river winding again and again throughthe village street, and the happy-looking peasants chatting at theirdoors with here and there a white-capped baby made much of by all. 

At last in the cool of the evening they reached Salsburg once more. Butthe pleasures of the day were not yet over for as they drew up at thedoor of their hotel a well-known figure suddenly emerged from the porchand hurried toward the carriage. 

"Unexpected as a meteor, " said a hearty voice in slightly foreignaccents. "Well, my good friend, well my guardian angel, how are youboth? We meet under more auspicious circumstances this time!"

It was Eric Haeberlein. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. The Most Unkindest Cut of All

 Those who persecuted them supposed of course that they were defending Christianity, but Christianity can be defended in no such way. It forbids all persecution all persecution for the sake of religion. Force cannot possibly propagate the truth or produce the faith, or promote the love in which the gospel consists. .. . Persecution can never arise from zeal for the Gospel as truth from zeal for the Gospel properly understood. If ever due to zeal in any measure, and not to pride, selfishness, anger, ambition, and other hateful lusts . .. It must be to a zeal which is in alliance with error. . .. The men (atheists) therefore, who, by their courage and endurance were specially instrumental in convincing their countrymen that persecution for the avowal and advocacy even of atheism is a folly and a crime, have really rendered a service to the cause of Christian truth, and their names will not be recorded without honor when the history of our century is impartially written. Baird Lectures, 1877. R. Flint, D. D. , Professor of Divinity, Edinburgh. 

A few days later the brief holiday ended, and father and daughter wereboth hard at work again in London. They had crossed from Antwerp bynight and had reached home about ten o'clock to find the usual busy lifeawaiting them. 

Tom and Aunt Jean, who had been very dull in their absence, weredelighted to have them back again; and though the air was thick withcoming troubles, yet it was nevertheless a real home coming, whileErica, in spite of her hidden sorrow, had a very real enjoyment indescribing her first foreign tour. They were making a late breakfastwhile she talked, Raeburn being more or less absorbed in the "DailyReview. "

"You see, such an early newspaper is a luxury now, " said Erica. "Notthat he's been behaving well abroad. He promised me when we started thathe'd eschew newspapers altogether and give his brain an entire rest; butthere is a beguiling reading room at Florence, and there was no keepinghim away from it. "

"What's that? What are you saying?" said Raeburn, absently. 

"That very soon, father, you will be as absent-minded as KingStars-and-Garters in the fairy tale, who one day, in a fit ofabstraction, buttered his newspaper and tried to read his toast. "

Raeburn laughed and threw down the "Daily Review. "

"Saucier than ever, isn't she, Tom? Well, we've come back to a fewdisagreeables; but then we've come back, thank man! To roast beef andTurkey towels, and after kickshaws and table napkins, one knows how toappreciate such things. "

"We could have done with your kickshaws here, " said Tom. "If you hadn'tcome back soon, Erica, I should have gone to the bad altogether, forhome life, with the cook to cater for one, is intolerable. That creaturehas only two ideas in her head. We rang the changes on rice and stewedrhubarb. The rhubarb in its oldest stage came up four days running. Wecalled it the widow's curse! Then the servants would make a point ofeating onions for supper so that the house was insufferable. And at lastwe were driven from pillar to post by a dreadful process called housecleaning in which, undoubtedly, life is not worth living. In the end, Mr. Osmond took pity on me and lent me Brian's study. Imagine hereticalwritings emanating from that room!"

This led the conversation round to Brian's visit to Florence, and Ericawas not sorry to be interrupted by a note from Mr. Bircham, requestingher to write an article on the Kilbeggan murder. She found that thewheels of the household machinery would need a good deal of attentionbefore they would move as smoothly as she generally contrived to makethem. Things had somehow "got to wrongs" in her absence. And when atlength she thought everything was in train and had got thoroughly intothe spirit of a descriptive article on the Irish tragedy, the cookof two ideas interrupted her with what seemed, in contract, the mosttrivial matters. 

"If you please, miss, " she said, coming into the green room, just as thethree villains in black masks were in the act of killing their victim, "I thought you'd wish to know that we are wanting a new set of kitchencloths; and if you'll excuse me mentioning it, miss, there's Jane, miss, using glass cloths as tea cloths, and dusters as knife cloths. "

Erica looked slightly distracted, but diverted her mind from the stateof Ireland to the state of the household linen, and, when left aloneonce more, laughed to herself at the incongruity of the two subjects. 

It was nearly a fortnight before Brian returned from Switzerland. Ericaknew that he was in the well-known house on the opposite side of thesquare, and through the trees in the garden, they could see each theother's place of residence. It was a sort of nineteenth-century versionof the Rhine legend, in which the knight of Rolandseek looked down uponNomenwerth where his lady love was immured in a convent. 

She had rather dreaded the first meeting, but, when it came, she feltnothing of what she had feared. She was in the habit of going on Sundaymorning to the eight o'clock service at the church in the square. It wasnearer than Charles Osmond's church, and the hour interfered less withhousehold arrangements. Just at the corner of the square on the morningof Trinity Sunday, she met Brian. Her heart beat quickly as she shookhands with him, but there was something in his bearing which set herentirely at her ease after just the first minute. He looked much older, and a certain restlessness in look and manner had quite left him, givingplace to a peculiar calm not unlike his father's expression. It was theexpression which a man wears when he has lost the desire of his heart, yet manfully struggles on, allowing no bitterness to steal in, facingunflinchingly the grayness of a crippled life. Somehow, joining in thatthanksgiving service seemed to give them the true key-note for theirdivided lives. As they came out into the porch, he asked her a question. 

"You are an authority on quotations, I know; my father wants to verifyone for his sermon this morning. Can you help him? It is this:

 'Revealed in love and sacrifice, The Holiest passed before thine eyes, One and the same, in threefold guise. '"

"It is Whittier, I know, " said Erica, promptly; "and I think it is in apoem called 'Trinitas. ' Come home with me, and we will hunt for it. "

So they walked back together silently, and found the poem, and atRaeburn's request Brian stayed to breakfast, and fell back naturallyinto his old place with them all. 

The following day Raeburn had to attend a meeting in the north ofEngland; he returned on the Tuesday afternoon, looking, Erica fancied, tired and overdone. 

"Railway journeys are not quite the rest they once were to me, " heconfessed, throwing himself down in a chair by the open window while shebrought him some tea. "This is very beguiling, little one; but see, I'veall these letters to answer before five. "

"Your train must have been very late. "

"Yes, there was a block on the line, and we stopped for half an hour inthe middle of a bean field bliss that a Londoner can't often enjoy. "

"Did you get out?"

"Oh, yes, and sat upon the fence and meditated to the great delectationof my olfactory nerves. "

Erica's laugh was checked by a knock at the door. The servant announcedthat a gentleman wanted to see Miss Raeburn. 

"Some message from Mr. Bircham, I expect, " said Erica to her father. "Ask him upstairs, please. I only hope he doesn't want me to writeanother article at the eleventh hour. If it's the little Irishsub-editor, you must be very polite to him, father, for he has been kindto me. "

But it was no message from the "Daily Review" office; a perfect strangerwas shown into the room. 

He bowed slightly as he entered. 

"Are you Miss Erica Raeburn?" he asked, coming toward her. 

"I am, " she replied. "What is your business with me?"

"I have to place this document in your hands. "

He gave her a paper which she rapidly unfolded. To her dying dayshe could always see that hateful bit of foolscap with its alternateprinting and writing. The words were to this effect:

Writ Subpoena Ad Test, at Sittings of High Court. IN THE HIGH COURT OFJUSTICE, QUEEN'S BENCH DIVISION. Between Luke Raeburn, Plaintiff, andWilliam Henry Pogson, Defendant VICTORIA, by the Grace of God, of theUnited kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of theFaith, To Erica Raeburn, greeting. We command you to attend at thesittings of the Queen's Bench division of our High Court of Justice tobe holden at Westminster on Tuesday, the Twentieth day of June, 18__, atthe hour of half past Ten in the forenoon, and so from day to day duringthe said sittings, until the above cause is tried, to give evidence onbehalf of the Defendant. Witness, etc. , etc. 

Erica read the paper twice before she looked up; she had grown white tothe very lips. Raeburn, recognizing the form of a subpoena, camehastily forward, and in the merest glance saw how matters were. By nopossibility could the most malicious of opponents have selected a surermeans of torturing him. 

"Is this legal?" asked Erica, lifting to him eyes that flashed withrighteous indignation. 

"Oh, it is legal, " he replied bitterly "the pound of flesh was legal. Awife need not appear against her husband, but a daughter may be draggedinto court and forced to give evidence against her father. "

As he spoke, such anger flashed from his eyes that the clerk shiveredall down his backbone. He thought he would take his departure as quicklyas might be, and drawing a little nearer, put down a coin upon the tablebeside Erica. 

"This fee is to cover your expenses, madame, " he said. 

"What!" exclaimed Erica, her anger leaping up into a sudden flame, "doyou think I shall take money from that man?"

She had an insane desire to snatch up the sovereign and fling it at theclerk's head, but restraining herself merely flicked it back across thetable to him, just touching it with the back of her hand as though ithad been polluted. 

"You can take that back again, " she said, a look of scorn sweeping overher face. "Tell Mr. Pogson that, when he martyrs people he need not say:'The martyrdom will make you hungry here is luncheon money, ' or 'Thetorture will tire you here is your cab fare!'"

"But, madame, excuse me, " said the clerk, looking much embarrassed. "Imust leave the money, I am bound to leave it. "

"If you leave it, I shall just throw it into the fireplace before youreyes, " said Erica. "But if indeed it can't be sent back, then give it tothe first gutter child you meet do anything you like with it! Hang it onyour watch chain as a memento of the most cruel case your firm every hadto do with!"

Her color had come back again, her cheeks were glowing, in her wrath shelooked most beautiful; the clerk would have been less than human if hehad not felt sorry for her. There was a moment's silence; he glancedfrom the daughter to the father, whose face was still pale and rigid. A great pity surged up in the clerk's heart. He was a father himself;involuntarily his thoughts turned to the little home at Kilburn whereMary and Kitty would be waiting for him that evening. What if theyshould ever be forced into a witness box to confirm a libel on hispersonal character? A sort of moisture came to his eyes at the bareidea. The counsel for the defense, too, was that Cringer, Q. C. , thegreatest bully that ever wore silk. Then he glanced once more at thesilent, majestic figure with the rigid face, who, though an atheist, wasyet a man and a father. 

"Sir, " he said, with the ring of real and deep feeling in his voice, "sir, believe me, if I had known what bringing this subpoena meant, Iwould sooner have lost my situation!"

Raeburn's face relaxed; he spoke a few courteous, dignified words, accepting with a sort of unspoken gratitude the man's regret, and ina few moments dismissing him. But even in these few moments the clerk, though by no means an impressionable man, had felt the spell, thestrange power of fascination which Raeburn invariably exercised uponthose he talked with that inexplicable influence which made cautious, hard-headed mechanics ready to die for him, ready to risk anything inhis cause. 

The instant the man was gone, Raeburn sat down at Erica's writingtable and began to answer his letters. His correspondents got very curtanswers that day. Erica could tell by the sound of his pan how sharpwere the down strokes, how short the rapidly written sentences. 

"Can I help you?" she asked, drawing nearer to him. 

He hastily selected two or three letters not bearing on hisanti-religious work, gave her directions, then plunged his pen in theink once more, and went on writing at lightning speed. When at lengththe most necessary ones were done, he pushed back his chair, and gettingup began to pace rapidly to and fro. Presently he paused and leanedagainst the mantel piece, his face half shaded by his hand. 

Erica stole up to him silently. 

"Sometimes, Eric, " he said abruptly, "I feel the need of the word'DEVIL!' My vocabulary has nothing strong enough for that man. "

She was too heartsick to speak; she drew closer to him with a mutecaress. 

"Eric!" he said, holding her hands between his, and looking down at herwith an indescribably eager expression in his eyes, "Eric, surely NOWyou see that this persecuting religion, this religion which hasbeen persecuting innumerable people for hundreds of years, is false, worthless, rotten to the core. Child! Child! Surely you can't believe ina God whose followers try to promote His glory by sheer brutality likethis?"

It was the first time he had spoken to her on this subject since theirinterview at Codrington. They had resolved never to touch upon it again;but a sort of consciousness that some good must come to him throughthis new bitterness, a hope that it must and would reconvince his child, impelled Raeburn to break his resolution. 

"I could sooner doubt that you are standing here, father, with your armround me, " said Erica, "than I could doubt the presence of your Fatherand mine the All-Father. "

"Even though his followers are such lying scoundrels as that Pogson?What do you make of that? What do you think of that?"

"I think, " she replied quietly, "that my father is too just a man tojudge Christianity by the very worst specimen of a Christian to bemet with. Any one who does not judge secularism by its very bestrepresentatives, dead or living, is unfair and what is unfair in onecase is unfair in another. "

"Well, if I judged it by you, perhaps I might take a different viewof it, " said Raeburn. "But then you had the advantage of some years ofsecularism. "

"Not by me!" cried Erica. "How can it seem anything but very faulty whenyou judge it only by faulty people? Why not judge it by the life andcharacter of Christ?"

Raeburn turned away with a gesture of impatience. 

"A myth! A poetic creation long ago distorted out of its trueproportions! There, child, I see we must stop. I only pain you andtorture myself by arguing the question. "

"One more thing, " said Erica, "before we go back to the old silence. Father, if you would only write a life of Christ I mean, a reallycomplete life; the one you wrote years ago was scarcely more than apamphlet. "

He smiled, knowing that she thought the deep study necessary for such anundertaking would lead to a change in his views. 

"My dear, " he said, "perhaps I would; but just see how I am overdone. Icouldn't write an elaborate thing now. Besides, there is the book on thePentateuch not half finished though it was promised months ago. Perhapsa year or two hence when Pogson gives me time to draw a long breath, I'll attempt it; but I have an idea that one or other of us will haveto be 'kilt intirely' before that happy time arrives. Perhaps we shallmutually do for each other, and reenact the historical song. " And, withlaughter in his eyes, he repeated:

"There once were two cats of Kilkenny, Each thought there was one cattoo many, So they quarreled and spit, and they scratched and they bit, Till, excepting their nails and the tips of their tails, Instead of twocats, there weren't any. "

Erica smiled faintly, but sighed the next minute. 

"Well, there! It's too grave a matter to jest about, " said Raeburn. "Oh, bairn! If I could but save you from that brute's malice, I should carevery little for the rest. "

"Since you only care about it for my sake, and I only for yours, I thinkwe may as well give up caring at all, " said Erica, looking up at himwith a brave smile. "And, after all, Mr. Cringer, Q. C. Can only keep mein purgatory for a few hours at the outside. Don't you think, too, thatsuch a cruel thing will damage Mr. Pogson in the eyes of the jury?"

"Unfortunately, dear, juries are seldom inclined to show any delicateconsiderateness to an atheist, " said Raeburn. 

And Erica knew that he spoke truly enough. 

No more was said just then. Raeburn began rapidly to run throughhis remaining correspondence a truly miscellaneous collection. Legalletters, political letters, business letters requests for his autograph, for his help, for his advice a challenge from a Presbyterian minister inthe north of Scotland to meet him in debate; the like from a Unitarianin Norfolk; a coffin and some insulting verses in a match box, andlastly an abrasive letter from a clergyman, holding him responsiblefor some articles by Mr. Masterman, which he had nothing whatever to dowith, and of which he in fact disapproved. 

"What would they think, Eric, if I insisted on holding the Bishopof London responsible for every utterance of every Christian in thediocese?" said Raeburn. 

"They would think you were a fool, " said Erica, cutting the coffin intolittle bits as she spoke. 

Raeburn smiled and penciled a word or two on the letter the pith of astinging reply. 

CHAPTER XXXV. Raeburn v. Pogson

 Oh, God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces! Oh, God of freedom and of joyous hearts! When Thy face looketh forth from all men's faces There will be room enough in crowded marts. Brood Thou around me, and the noise is o'er; Thy universe my closet with shut door. 

 Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. God in thee, can His children's folly gall? Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave? Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; Thou art my solitude, my mountain calm. George MacDonald

When a particularly unpleasant event has long been hanging over one'shead, sure to come at some time, though the precise date is unknown, people of a certain disposition find it quite possible to live on prettycomfortably through the waiting time. But when at length the date isfixed, when you know that that which you dread will happen upon such andsuch a day, then the waiting begins all at once to seem intolerable. Thevague date had been awaited calmly, but the certain date is awaited witha wearing anxiety which tells fearfully on physical strength. When Ericaknew that the action for libel would begin in a fortnight's time, thecomparative calmness of the nine months which had passed since theoutset of the matter gave place to an agony of apprehension. Night afternight she had fearful dreams of being cross-examined by Mr. Cringer, Q. C. , who always forced her to say exactly what she did not mean. Nightafter night coldly curious eyes stared down at her from all parts ofa crowded court; while her misery was completed by being perfectlyconscious of what she ought to have said directly it was too late. 

By day she was too wise to allow herself to dwell on the future; sheworked doubly hard, laid in a stock of particularly interesting books, and threw herself as much as possible into the lives of others. Happily, the Farrants were in town, and she was able to see a great deal of them;while on the very day before the trial came a substantial little bit ofhappiness. 

She was sitting in the study doing some copying for her father when abrougham stopped at the door. Erica, who never failed to recognize ahorse if she had once seen it before, who even had favorites among thedozens of omnibus horses which she met daily in Oxford Street, at onceknew that either Donovan or Gladys had come to see her. 

She ran out into the hall to meet them, but had no sooner opened thestudy door than the tiniest of dogs trotted into the room and begansniffing cautiously at her father's clothes. 

"Tottie has made a very unceremonious entrance, " said a clear, mellowvoice in the passage. "May we come in, or are you too busy today?"

"Oh, please come in. Father is home, and I do so want you to meet, "said Erica. "You have brought Dolly, too! That is delightful. We aredreadfully in want of something young and happy to cheer us up. "

The two men shook hands with the momentary keen glance into each other'seyes which those give who have heard much of one another but have neverbeen personally acquainted. 

"As to Dolly, " said Donovan, "she requires no introduction to Mr. Raeburn. "

"No, " said Erica, laughing, "she cried all over his coat two years ago. "

Dolly did not often wait for introductions unless she disliked people. And no child could have found it in its heart to dislike anything so bigand kind and fatherly as Luke Raeburn. 

"We blought a little dog for Elica, " she said, in her silvery treble. 

And the next moment she was established on Raeburn's knee, encouragedto thrust a little, dimpled hand into his pocket for certain Edinburghdainties. 

"Dolly does not beat about the bush, " said Donovan, smiling. "Would youat all care to have this small animal? I knew you were fond of dogs, and Gladys and I saw this little toy Esquimanx the other day and fellin love with him. I find though that another dog rather hurts Waif'sfeelings, so you will be doing a kindness to him as well if you willaccept 'Tottie. '"

"Oh, how delightful of you! It was kind of you to think of it, " saidErica. "I have always so longed to have a dog of my own. And this issuch a little beauty! Is it not a very rare breed?"

"I believe it is, and I think he's a loving little beggar, too, " repliedDonovan. "He is making himself quite at home here, is he not?"

And in truth the small dog seemed deeply interested in his newresidence. He was the tiniest of his kind, and was covered with longblack hair which stood straight up on end; his pointed nose, brightbrown eyes, and cunning little ears, set in the frame work of bushyhair, gave him a most sagacious appearance. And just now he was brimfulof curiosity, pattering all over the room, poking his nose into a greatpile of "Idol-Breakers, " sniffing at theological and anti-theologicalbooks with perfect impartiality, rubbing himself against Raeburn's footin the most ingratiating way, and finally springing up on Erica's lapwith the oddest mixture of defiance and devotion in his eyes which saidas plainly as if he had spoken: "People may say what they like aboutyou, but I'm your faithful dog from this day forward!"

Raeburn was obliged to go out almost directly as he had an appointmentin the city, but Erica knew that he had seen enough of Donovan torealize what he was and was satisfied. 

"I am so glad you have just met, " she said when he had left the room. "And, as to Dolly, she's been a real god-send. I haven't seen my fathersmile before for a week. "

"Strange, is it not, how almost always children instinctively take tothose whom the world treats as outcasts. I have a great belief thatGod lets the pure and innocent make up in part by their love for theuncharitableness of the rest of us. "

"That's a nice thought, " said Erica. "I have never had much to do withchildren, except with this one. " And as she spoke she lifted Dolly onher lap beside Tottie. 

"I have good reason to believe in both this kind and that, " saidDonovan, touching the dusky head of the dog and the sunny hair of thechild. As he spoke there was a look in his eyes which made Erica feelinclined almost to cry. She knew that he was thinking of the pastthough there was no regret in his expression, only a shade of additionalgravity about his lips and an unusual light about his brow and eyes. Itwas the face of a man who had known both the evil and the good, and hadnow reached far into the Unseen. 

By and by they talked of Switzerland and of Brian, Donovan telling herjust what she wanted to know about him though he never let her feel thathe knew all about the day at Fiesole. And from that they passed to thecoming trial of which he spoke in exactly the most helpful way, nottrying to assure her, as some well-meaning people had done, thatthere was really nothing to be grieved or anxious about; but fullysympathizing with the pain while he somehow led her on to the thought ofthe unseen good which would in the long run result from it. 

"I do believe that now, with all my heart. " she said. 

"I knew you did, " he replied, smiling a little. "You have learned itsince you were at Greyshot last year. And once learned it is learnedforever. "

"Yes, " she said musingly. "But, oh! How slowly one learns in such littlebits. It's a great mistake to think that we grasp the whole when thelight first comes to us, and yet it feels then like the whole. "

"Because it was the whole you were then capable of, " said Donovan. "But, you see, you grow. "

"Want to grow, at any rate, " said Erica. "Grow conscious that there isan Infinite to grow to. "

Then, as in a few minutes he rose to go:

"Well, you have done me good, you and Dolly, and this blessed littledog. Thank you very much for coming. "

She went out with them to the door and stood on the steps with Tottie inher arms, smiling a goodbye to little Dolly. 

"That's the bravest woman I know, " thought Donovan to himself, "and thesweetest save one. Poor Brian! Though, after all, it's a grand thing tolove such as Erica even without hope. "

And all the afternoon there rang in his ears the line

"A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong. "

The next day troubles began in good earnest. They were all very silentat breakfast. Raeburn looked anxious and preoccupied, and Erica, notfeeling sure that conversation would not worry him, did not try to talk. Once Aunt Jean looked up for a moment from her paper with a question. 

"By the bye, what are you going to wear, Erica?"

"Sackcloth, I think, " said Erica; "it would be appropriate. "

Raeburn smiled a little at this. 

"Something cool, I should advise, " he said. "The place will be like afurnace today. "

He pushed back his chair as he spoke and went away to his study. Tom hadto hurry away, too, being due at his office by nine o'clock; and Ericabegan to rack her brains to devise the nicest of dinners for them thatevening. She dressed in good time, and was waiting for her father inthe green room when just before ten o'clock the front door opened, quicksteps came up the stairs, and, to her amazement, Tom entered. 

"Back again!" she exclaimed. "Have you got a holiday?"

"I've got my conge', " he said in a hoarse voice, throwing himself downin a chair by the window. 

"Tom! What do you mean?" she cried, dismayed by the trouble in his face. 

"Got the sack, " he said shortly. 

"What! Lost your situation? But how? Why?"

"I was called this morning into Mr. Ashgrove's private room; he informedme that he had just learned with great annoyance that I was the nephewof that (you can supply his string of abusive adjectives) Luke Raeburn. Was it true? I told him I had that honor. Was I, then, an atheist?Certainly. A Raeburnite? Naturally. After which came a long oration, atthe end of which I found myself the wrong side of the office door withorders never to darken it again, and next month's salary in my hand. That's the matter in brief, CUGINA. "

His face settled into a sort of blank despair so unlike its usualexpression that Erica's wrath flamed up at the sight. 

"It's a shame!" she cried "a wicked shame! Oh, Tom dear, I am so sorryfor you. I wish this had come upon me instead. "

"I wouldn't care so much, " said poor Tom huskily, "if he hadn't chosenjust this time for it; but it will worry the chieftain now. "

Erica was on the verge of tears. 

"Oh, what shall we do what can we do?" she cried almost in despair. "Ihad not thought of that. Father will feel it dreadfully. "

But to conceal the matter was now hopeless for, as she spoke, Raeburncame into the room. 

"What shall I feel dreadfully?" he said, smiling a little. "If any manought to be case-hardened, I ought to be. "

But as he drew nearer and saw the faces of the two, his own face grewstern and anxious. 

"You at home, Tom! What's the matter?"

Tom briefly told his tale, trying to make as light of it as possible, even trying to force a little humor into his account, but with poorsuccess. There was absolute silence in the green room when he paused. Raeburn said not a word, but he grew very pale, evidently in this matterbeing by no means case-hardened. A similar instance, further removedfrom his immediate circle, might have called forth a strong, angrydenunciation; but he felt too deeply anything affecting his own familyor friends to be able in the first keenness of his grief and anger tospeak. 

"My boy, " he said at last, in a low, musical voice whose perfectmodulations taxed Tom's powers of endurance to the utmost, "I am verysorry for this. I can't say more now; we will talk it over tonight. Willyou come to Westminster with us?"

And presently as they drove along the crowded streets, he said with abitter smile:

"There's one Biblical woe which by no possibility can ever befall us. "

"What's that?" said Tom. 

"'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you, '" said Raeburn. 

A few minutes later, and the memorable trial of Raeburn v. Pogson had atlength begun. Raeburn's friends had done their best to dissuade him fromconducting his own case, but he always replied to them with one of hisScotch proverbs "A man's a lion in his ain cause. " His opening speechwas such an exceedingly powerful one that all felt on the first daythat he had been right though inevitably it added not a little to thedisagreeableness of the case. 

As soon as the court had risen, Erica went home with her aunt and Tom, thankful to feel that at least one day was well over; but her father wascloseted for some hours with his solicitor and did not rejoin themtill late that evening. He came in then, looking fearfully tired, and scarcely spoke all through dinner; but afterward, just as Tom wasleaving the room, he called him back. 

"I've been thinking things over, " he said. "What was your salary withMr. Ashgrove?"

"One hundred pounds a year, " replied Tom, wondering at what possiblehour the chieftain had found a spare moment to bestow upon his affairs. 

"Well, then, will you be my secretary for the same?"

For many years Tom had given all his spare time to helping Raeburn withhis correspondence, and for some time he had been the practical, thoughunrecognized, sub-editor of the "Idol-Breaker, " but all his work hadbeen done out of pure devotion to the "cause. " Nothing could havepleased him more than to give his whole time to the work while his greatlove and admiration for Raeburn eminently qualified him for the serviceof a somewhat autocratic master. 

Raeburn, with all his readiness to help those in any difficulty, withall his geniality and thoroughness of character, was by no means theeasiest person to work with. For, in common with other strong andself-reliant characters, he liked in all things to have his own way, andbeing in truth a first-rate organizer, he had scant patience with otherpeople's schemes. Erica was very glad that he had made the proposalto Tom for, though regretting that he should give his life to thefurtherance of work, much of which she strongly disapproved, she couldnot but be relieved at anything which would save her father in somedegree from the immense strain of work and anxiety, which were nowaltogether beyond the endurance of a single man, and bid fair to overtaxeven Raeburn's giant strength. 

Both Charles Osmond and Brian appeared as voluntary witnesses on behalfof the plaintiff, and naturally the first few days of the trial wereendurable enough. But on the Friday the defense began, and it becameevident that the most bitter spirit would pervade the rest of theproceedings. Mr. Pogson had spared neither trouble nor expense; he hadbrought witnesses from all the ends of the earth to swear that, in somecases twenty years ago, they had heard the plaintiff speak such andsuch words, or seen him do such and such deeds. The array of witnessesappeared endless; there seemed no reason why the trial ever should cometo an end. It bid fair to be a CAUSE CELEBRE, while inevitably Raeburn'snotoriety made the public take a great interest in the proceedings. Itbecame the topic of the day. Erica rarely went in any public conveyancewithout hearing it discussed. 

One day she heard the following cheering sentiment:

"Oh, of course you know the jury will never give a verdict for such afellow as Raeburn. "

"I suppose they can't help being rather prejudiced against him becauseof his views; but, upon my word, it seems a confounded shame. " "Oh, Idon't see that, " replied the first speaker. "If he holds such views, hemust expect to suffer for them. "

Day after day passed and still the case dragged on. Erica became soaccustomed to spending the day in court that at last it seemed to herthat she had never done anything else all her life. Every day she hopedthat she might be called, longing to get the hateful piece of work over. But days and weeks passed, and still Mr. Cringer and his learned friendsexamined other witnesses, but kept her in reserve. Mr. Bircham had beenexceedingly kind to her, and in the "Daily Review" office, where Ericawas treated as a sort of queen, great indignation had been caused by Mr. Pogson;'s malice. "Our little lady" (her sobriquet there) received thehearty support and sympathy of every man in the place from the editorhimself to the printer's devil. Every morning the office boy brought herin court the allotted work for the day, which she wrote as well asshe could during the proceedings or at luncheon time, with the happyconsciousness that all her short comings would be set right by thelittle Irish sub-editor who worshipped the ground she trod on and wasalways ready with courteous and unofficious help. 

There were many little pieces of kindness which served to heightenthat dreary summer for Mr. Pogson's ill-advised zeal had stimulatedall lovers of justice into a protest against a most glaring instanceof bigotry and unfair treatment. Many clergymen spoke out bravely anddenounced the defendant's intolerance; many non-conformist ministersrisked giving dire offense to their congregations by saying a good wordfor the plaintiff. Each protest did its modicum of good, but stillthe weary case dragged on, and every day the bitterness on either sideseemed to increase. 

Mr. Pogson had, by fair means or foul, induced an enormous number ofwitnesses to come forward and prove the truth of his statement, and dayafter day there were the most wearisome references to old diaries, toreports of meetings held in obscure places, perhaps more than a dozenyears ago, or to some hashed and mangled report of a debate which, incredible though such meanness seems, had been specially constructed bysome unscrupulous opponent in such a way as to alter the entire meaningof Raeburn's words--a process which may very easily be effected by ajudicious omission of contexts. Raeburn was cheered and encouraged, however, in spite of all the thousand cares and annoyances of that timeby the rapidly increasing number of his followers, and by many tokens ofmost touching devotion from the people for whom, however mistakenly, he had labored with unwearying patience and zeal. Erica saw only tooplainly that Mr. Pogson was, in truth, fighting against Christianity, and every day brought fresh proofs of the injury done to Christ's causeby this modern instance of injustice and religious intolerance. 

It was a terribly trying position, and any one a degree less brave andsincere would probably have lost all faith; but the one visible goodeffected by that miserable struggle was the strange influence it exertedin developing her character. She was one of those who seem to growexactly in proportion to the trouble they have had to bear. And so itcame to pass that, while evil was wrought in many quarters, in this onegood resulted good not in the least understood by Raeburn, or Aunt Jean, or Tom, who merely knew that Erica was less hot and hasty than in formertimes, and found it more of a relief than ever to come home to herloving sympathy. 

"After all, " they used to say, "the miserable delusion hasn't been ableto spoil her. "

One day, just after the court had reassembled in the afternoon, Ericawas putting the finishing touches to a very sprightly criticism on acertain political speech, when suddenly she heard the name, for whichshe had waited so long, called in the clerk's most sonorous tones "EricaRaeburn!"

She was conscious of a sudden white flash as every face in the crowdedcourt turned towards her, but more conscious of a strong Presencewhich seemed to wrap her in a calm so perfect that the disagreeablesurroundings became a matter of very slight import. Here were hostileeyes, indeed; but she was strong enough to face all the powers of evilat once. A sort of murmur ran through the court as she entered thewitness box, but she did not heed it any more than she would have heededthe murmur of the summer wind without. She just stood there, strongin her truth and purity, able, if need be, to set a whole world atdefiance. 

"Pogson's made a mistake in calling her, " said a briefless barristerto one of his companions in adversity; they both spent their livesin hanging about the courts, thankful when they could get a bit of"deviling. "

"Right you are!" replied the other, putting up his eyeglass to look atErica, and letting it drop after a brief survey. "I'd bet twenty to onethat girl loses him his case. And I'm hanged if he doesn't deserve to. "

"Well, it is rather a brutal thing to make a man's own child giveevidence against him. Halloo! Just look at Raeburn! That man's either aconsummate actor, or else a living impersonation of righteous anger. "

"No acting there, " replied the other, putting up his eyeglass again. "It's lucky dueling is a thing of the past or I expect Pogson wouldhave a bullet in his heart before the day was over. I don't wonder he'sfurious, poor fellow! Now, then here's old Cringer working himself upinto his very worst temper!"

The whispered dialogue was interrupted for a few minutes but wascontinued at intervals. 

"By Jove, what a voice she's got! The jury will be flints if they arenot influenced by it. Ah, you great brute! I wouldn't have asked herthat question for a thousand pounds! How lovely she looks when sheblushes! He'll confuse her, though, as sure as fate. No, not a bit ofit! That was dignified, wasn't it? How the words rang, 'Of course not!'I say, Jack, this will be as good as a lesson in elocution for us!"

"Raeburn looks up at that for the first time. Well, poor devil! Howevermuch baited, he can, at any rate, feel proud of his daughter. "

Then came a long pause. For the fire of questions was so sharp thatthe two would not break the thread by speaking. Once or twicesome particularly irritating question was ruled by the judge to beinadmissible, upon which Mr. Cringer looked, in a hesitatingly courteousmanner, toward him, and obeyed orders with a smiling deference; then, facing round upon Erica, with a little additional venom, he visited hisannoyance upon her by exerting all his unrivaled skill in endeavoring tomake her contradict herself. 

"You'll make nothing of this one, Cringer, " one of his friends hadsaid to him at the beginning of Erica's evidence. And he had smiledconfidently by way of reply. All the more was he now determined notto be worsted by a young girl whom he ought to be able to put out ofcountenance in ten minutes. 

The result of this was that, in the words of the newspaper reports, "the witness's evidence was not concluded when the court rose. " This wasperhaps the greatest part of the trial to Erica. She had hoped, not onlyfor her own, but for her father's sake, that her evidence might all betaken in one day, and Mr. Cringer, while really harming his own causeby prolonging her evidence, inflicted no slight punishment on the mosttroublesome witness he had ever had to deal with. 

The next morning it all came over again with increased disagreeableness. 

"Erica always was the plucky one, " said Tom to his mother as theywatched her enter the witness box. "She always did the confessing whenwe got into scrapes. I only hope that brute of a Cringer won't put herout of countenance. "

He need not have feared, though in truth Erica was tried to the utmost. To begin with, it was one of the very hottest of the dog-days, and thecourt was crowded to suffocation. This was what the public consideredthe most interesting day of the trial for it was the most personal one, and the English have as great a taste for personalities as the Americansthough it is not so constantly gratified. Apparently Mr. Cringer, beinga shrewd man, had managed in the night watches to calculate Erica's onevulnerable point. She was fatally clear-headed; most aggravatingly andpalpably truthful; most unfortunately fascinating; and, though naturallyquick-tempered, most annoyingly self-controlled. But she was evidentlydelicate. If he could sufficiently harass and tire her, he might makeher say pretty much what he pleased. 

This, at least, was the conclusion at which he had arrived. And if itwas indeed his duty to the defendant to exhaust both fair means and foulin the endeavor to win him his case, then he certainly fulfilled hisduty. For six long hours, with only a brief interval for luncheon, Ericawas baited, badgered, tormented with questions which in themselves wereinsults, assured that she had said what she had not said, tempted to saywhat she did not mean, involved in fruitless discussions about placesand dates and, in fact, so thoroughly tortured, that most girls wouldlong before have succumbed. She did not succumb, but she grew whiterand whiter save when some vile insinuation brought a momentary wave ofcrimson across her face. 

Tom listened breathlessly to the examination which went on in a constantcrescendo of bitterness. 

"The plaintiff was in the habit of doing this?"

"Yes. "

"Your suspicion was naturally excited, then?"

"Certainly not. "

"Not excited?" incredulously. 

"Not in the least. "

"You are an inmate of the plaintiff's house, I believe?"

"I am. "

"But this has not always been the case?"

"All my life with the exception of two years. "

"Your reason for the two years' absence had a connection with theplaintiff's mode of life, had it not?"

"Not in the sense you wish to imply. It had a connection with ourextreme poverty. "

"Though an inmate of you father's house, you are often away from home?"

"No, very rarely. "

"Oblige me by giving a straightforward answer. What do you mean byrarely?"

"Very seldom. "

"This is mere equivocation; will you give me a straightforward reply?"

"I can't make it more so, " said Erica, keeping her temper perfectly andreplying to the nagging interrogatories. "Do you mean once a year, twicea year?" etc. , etc. , with a steady patience which foiled Mr. Cringereffectually. He opened a fresh subject. 

"Do you remember the 1st of September last year?"

"I do. "

"Do you remember what happened then?"

"Partridge shooting began. "

There was much laughter at this reply; she made it partly because evennow the comic side of everything struck her, partly because she wantedto gain time. What in the world was Mr. Cringer driving at?

"Did not something occur that night in Guilford Terrace which you wereanxious to conceal?"

For a moment Erica was dumfounded. It flashed upon her that he knew ofthe Haeberlein adventure and meant to serve his purpose by distorting itinto something very different. Luckily she was almost as rapid a thinkeras her father; she saw that there was before her a choice of two evils. She must either allow Mr. Cringer to put an atrocious construction onher unqualified "yes" or she must boldly avow Haeberlein's visit. 

"With regard to my father there was nothing to conceal, " she replied. 

"Will you swear that there was NOTHING to conceal?"

"With regard to my father there was nothing to conceal, " she replied. 

"Don't bandy words with me. Will you repeat my formula 'Nothing toconceal?'"

"No, I will not repeat that. "

"You admit that there WAS something to conceal?"

"If you call Eric Haeberlein 'something' yes. "

There was a great sensation in the court at these words. But Mr. Cringerwas nonplused. The mysterious "something, " out of which he had intendedto make such capital, was turned into a boldly avowed reality a realitywhich would avail him nothing. Moreover, most people would now seethrough his very unworthy maneuvers. Furiously he hurled question uponquestion at Erica. He surpassed himself in sheer bullying. By this time, too, she was very weary. The long hours of standing, the insufferableatmosphere, the incessant stabs at her father's character made theexamination almost intolerable. And the difficulty of answering the fireof questions was great. She struggled on, however, until the time camewhen Raeburn stood up to ask whether a certain question was allowable. She looked at him then for the first time, saw how terribly he wasfeeling her interminable examination, and for a moment lost heart. Therows of people grew hazy and indistinct. Mr. Cringer's face got allmixed up with his wig, she had to hold tightly to the railing. How muchlonger could she endure?

"Yet you doubtless thought this probable?" continued her tormentor. 

"Oh, no! On the contrary, quite the reverse, " said Erica with amomentary touch of humor. 

"Are you acquainted with the popular saying: 'None are so blind as thosewho will not see?'"

The tone was so insulting that indignation restored Erica to her fullstrength; she was stung into giving a sharp retort. 

"Yes, " she said very quietly. "It has often occurred to me during thisaction as strangely applicable to the defendant. "

Mr. Cringer looked as if he could have eaten her. There was a burst ofapplause which was speedily suppressed. 

"Yet you do not, of course, mean to deny the whole allegation?"

"Emphatically!"

"Are you aware that people will think you either a deluded innocent oran infamous deceiver?"

"I am not here to consider what people may think of me, but to speak thetruth. "

And as she spoke she involuntarily glanced toward those twelvefellow-countrymen of hers upon whose verdict so much depended. Probablyeven the oldest, even the coldest of the jurymen felt his heart beat alittle faster as those beautiful, sad honest eyes scanned the jury box. As for the counsel for the defense, he prudently accepted his defeatand, as Raeburn would not ask a single question of his daughter incross-examination, another witness was called. 

Long after, it was a favorite story among the young barristers of howMr. Cringer was checkmated by Raeburn's daughter. 

The case dragged on its weary length till August. At last, when twomonths of the public time had been consumed, when something like 20, 000pounds had been spent, when most bitter resentment had been stirred upamong the secularists, Mr. Pogson's defense came to an end. Raeburn'sreply was short, but effective; and the jury returned a verdict in hisfavor, fixing the damages, however, at the very lowest sum, not becausethey doubted that Raeburn had been most grossly libeled, but because theplaintiff had the misfortune to be an atheist. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. Rose's Adventure

 If Christians would teach Infidels to be just to Christianity, they should themselves be just to infidelity. John Stuart Mill

The green room was one of those rooms which show to most advantage on awinter evening; attractive and comfortable at all times, it neverthelessreached its highest degree of comfort when the dusky green curtains weredrawn, when the old wainscoted walls were lighted up by the red glowfrom the fire, and the well-worn books on the shelves were mellowedby the soft light into a uniform and respectable brown. One Novemberevening, when without was the thickest of London fogs, Erica was sittingat her writing table with Friskarina on her lap, and Tottie curled upat her feet, preparing for one of her science classes, when she wasinterrupted by the sound of a cab drawing up, speedily followed by aloud ring at the bell. 

"Surely Monsieur Noirol can't have come already!" she said to herself, looking at her watch. It was just six o'clock, a whole hour beforedinner time. Steps were approaching the door, however, and she was justinhospitably wishing her guest elsewhere, when to her intense amazementthe servant announced "Miss Fane-Smith. "

She started forward with an exclamation of incredulity for it seemedabsurd to think of Rose actually coming to see her in her father'shouse. But incredulity was no longer possible when Rose herself entered, in ulster and traveling hat, with her saucy laughing face, and herinvariable content with herself and the world in general. 

"Why, Erica!" she cried, kissing her on both cheeks, "I don't believeyou're half properly glad to see me! Did you think it was my wraith? Iassure you it's my own self in the flesh, and very cold flesh, too. Whata delightful room! I'd no idea atheists' homes were so much like otherpeople's. You cold-hearted little cousin, why don't you welcome me?"

"I am very glad to see you, " said Erica, kissing her again. "But, Rose, what did bring you here?"

"A fusty old cab, a four-wheeler, a growler, don't you call them? But, if you knew why I have come to you in this unexpected way, you wouldtreat me like the heroine I am, and not stand there like an incarnationof prudent hesitation. I've bee treated like the man in the parable, I've fallen among thieves, and am left with my raiment, certainly, butnot a farthing besides in the world. And now, of course, you'll enactthe good Samaritan. . "

"Come and get warm, " said Erica, drawing a chair toward the fire, butstill feeling uncomfortable at the idea of Mr. Fane-Smith's horror anddismay could he have seen his daughter's situation. 

"How do you come to be in town, Rose, and where were you robbed?"

"Why, I was going to stay with the Alburys at Sandgale, and left homeabout three, but at Paddington, when I went to get my ticket, lo andbehold my purse had disappeared, and I was left lamenting, like LordUllin in the song. "

"Have you any idea who took it?"

"Yes, I rather think it must have been a man on the Paddington platformwho walked with a limp. I remember his pushing up against me veryroughly, and I suppose that was when he took it. The porters were allhorrid about it, though, I could get no one to help me, and I hadn'teven the money to get my ticket. At last an old lady, who had heard ofmy penniless condition, advised me to go to any friends I might happento have in London, and I bethought me of my cousin Erica. You willbefriend me, won't you? For it is impossible to get to Sandgale tonight;there is no other train stopping there. "

"I wish I knew what was right, " said Erica, looking much perplexed. "Yousee, Rose, I'm afraid Mr. Fane-Smith would not like you to come here. "

"Oh, nonsense, " said Rose, laughing. "He couldn't mind in such a caseas this. Why, I can't stay in the street all night. Besides, he doesn'tknow anything about your home, how should he?"

This was true enough, but still Erica hesitated. 

"Who was that white-haired patriarchal-looking man whom I met in thehall?" asked Rose. "A sort of devotional quaker-kind of man. "

Erica laughed aloud at this description. 

"That's my father!" she said; and, before she had quite recovered hergravity, Raeburn came into the room with some papers which he wantedcopied. 

"Father, " said Erica, "this is Rose, and she has come to ask our helpbecause her purse has been stolen at Paddington, and she is stranded inLondon with no money. "

"It sounds dreadfully like begging, " said Rose, looking up into thebrown eyes which seemed half kindly, half critical. 

They smiled at this, and became at once only kind and hospitable. 

"Not in the least, " he said; "I am very glad you came to us. "

And then he began to ask her many practical questions about heradventure, ending by promising to put the matter at once into the handsof the police. They were just discussing the impossibility of getting toSandgale that evening when Tom came into the room. 

"Where is mother?" he asked. "She has kept her cab at the door at leastten minutes; I had to give the fellow an extra sixpence. "

"That wasn't auntie's cab, " said Erica, "she came home half an hour ago;it was Rose's cab. I hope you didn't send away her boxes?"

"I beg your pardon, " said Tom, looking much surprised and a littleamused. "The boxes are safe in the hall, but I'm afraid the cab is gonebeyond recall. "

"You see it is evidently meant that I should quarter myself upon you!"said Rose, laughing. 

Upon which Raeburn, with a grave and slightly repressive courtesy, saidthey should be very happy if she would stay with them. 

"That will make my adventure perfect!" said Rose, her eyes dancing. 

At which Raeburn smiled again, amused to think of the uneventful life inwhich such a trifling incident could seem an "adventure. "

"It seems very inhospitable, " said Erica, "but don't you think, Rose, you had better go back to Greyshot?"

"No, you tiresome piece of prudence, I don't, " said Rose perversely. "And what's more, I won't, as Uncle Luke has asked me to stay. "

Erica felt very uncomfortable; she could have spoken decidedly had shebeen alone with any of the three, but she could not, before them all, say: "Mr. Fane-Smith thinks father an incarnation of wickedness andwould be horrified if he knew that you were here. "

Tom had in the meantime walked to the window and drawn aside thecurtain. 

"The weather means to settle the question for you, " he said. "You reallycan't go off in such a fog as this; it would take you hours to get toPaddington, if you ever did get there, which is doubtful. "

They looked out and saw that he had not exaggerated matters; the fog hadgrown much worse since Rose's arrival, and it had been bad enough thento make traveling by no means safe. Erica saw that there was no helpfor it. Mr. Fane-Smith's anger must be incurred, and Rose must stay withthem. She went away to see that her room was prepared, and coming back alittle later found that in that brief time Rose had managed to enthrallpoor Tom who, not being used to the genus, was very easily caught, hisphilosophy being by no means proof against a fair-haired, bright-lookinggirl who in a very few moments made him feel that she thought mosthighly of him and cared as no one had ever cared before for his opinion. She had not the smallest intention of doing harm, but admiration waswhat she lived for, and to flirt with every man she met had becomealmost as natural and necessary to her as to breathe. 

Erica, out of loyalty to Mr. Fane-Smith and regard for Tom's futurehappiness, felt bound to be hard-hearted and to separate them at dinner. Tom used to sit at the bottom of the table as Raeburn did not care forthe trouble of carving; Erica was at the head with her father in hisusual place at her right hand. She put Rose in between him and theprofessor who generally dined with them on Saturday; upon the oppositeside were Aunt Jean and M. Noirol. Now Rose, who had been quite in herelement as long as she had been talking with Tom in the green room, feltdecidedly out of her element when she was safely ensconced between herwhite-haired uncle and the shaggy-looking professor. If Erica had feltbewildered when first introduced to the gossip and small "society" talkof Greyshot, Rose felt doubly bewildered when for the first time in herlife she came into a thoroughly scientific atmosphere. She realized thatthere were a few things which she had yet to learn. She was not fond oflearning so the discovery was the reverse of pleasant; she felt ignorantand humbled, liking to be AU FAIT at everything and to know things anddo things just a little better than other people. Having none of thehumility of a true learner, she only felt annoyed at her own ignorance, not raised and bettered and stimulated by a glimpse of the infinitegreatness of science. 

Raeburn, seeing that she was not in the least interested in thediscussion of the future of electricity, left the professor to continueit with Tom, and began to talk to her about the loss of her purse, and to tell her of various losses which he had had. But Rose had themortifying consciousness that all the time he talked he was listening tothe conversation between Erica and M. Noirol. As far as Rose couldmake out it was on French politics; but they spoke so fast that herindifferent school French was of very little service to her. By and byRaeburn was drawn into the discussion and Rose was left to amuse herselfas well as she could by listening to a rapid flow of unintelligibleFrench on one side, and to equally unintelligible scientific talk onthe other. By and by this was merged into a discussion some recent book. They seemed to get deeply interested in a dispute as to whether Spinozawas or was not at any time in his life a Cartesian. 

Rose really listened to this for want of something better to do, andRaeburn, thinking that he had been neglecting her, and much relieved atthe thought that he had at length found some point of mutual interest, asked her whether she had read the book in question. 

"Oh, I have no time for reading, " said Rose. 

He looked a little amused at this statement. Rose continued:

"Who was Spinoza? I never heard any of his music. "

"He was a philosopher, not a composer, " said Raeburn, keeping hiscountenance with difficulty. 

"What dreadfully learned people you are!" said Rose with one of her archsmiles. "But do tell me, how can a man be a Cartesian? I've heard ofCartesian wells, but never--"

She broke off for this was quite too much for Raeburn's gravity; helaughed, but so pleasantly that she laughed too. 

"You are thinking of artesian wells, I fancy, " he said in hiskindly voice; and he began to give her a brief outline of Descartes'philosophy, which it is to be feared she did not at all appreciate. She was not sorry when Erica appealed to him for some disputed fact, in which they all seemed most extraordinarily interested, for when thediscussion had lasted some minutes, Tom went off in the middle of dinnerand fetched in two or three bulky books of reference; these were eagerlyseized upon, to the entire disregard of the pudding which was allowed toget cold. 

Presently the very informal meal was ended by some excellent coffeein the place of the conventional dessert, after which came a hurrieddispersion as they were all going to some political meeting at the EastEnd. Cabs were unattainable and, having secured a couple of link-boys, they set off, apparently in excellent spirits. 

"Fancy turning out on such a night as this!" said Rose, putting her armwithin Erica's. "I am so glad you are not going for now we can reallyhave a cozy talk. I've ever so much to tell you. "

Erica looked rather wistfully after the torches and the retreating formsas they made their way down the steps; she was much disappointed atbeing obliged to miss this particular meeting, but luckily Rose was notin the least likely to find this out for she could not imagine for amoment that any one really cared about missing a political meeting, particularly when it would have involved turning out on such adisagreeable night. 

Erica had persuaded Rose to telegraph both to her friends at Sandgaleand to her mother to tell of her adventure and to say that she wouldgo on to Sandgale on the Monday. For, unfortunately, the next day wasSunday, and Rose looked so aghast at the very idea of traveling thenthat Erica could say nothing more though she surmised rightly enoughthat Mr. Fane-Smith would have preferred even Sunday traveling to aSunday spent in Luke Raeburn's house. There was evidently, however, nohelp for it. Rose was there, and there she must stay; all that Ericacould do was to keep her as much as might be out of Tom's way, andto beg the others not to discuss any subjects bearing on theiranti-religious work; and since there was not the smallest temptation totry to make Rose a convert to secularism, they were all quite willing toavoid such topics. 

But, in spite of all her care, Erica failed most provokingly that day. To begin with, Rose pleaded a headache and would not go with her to theearly service. Erica was disappointed; but when, on coming home, shefound Rose in the dining room comfortably chatting over the fire to Tom, who was evidently in the seventh heaven of happiness, she felt as ifshe could have shaken them both. By and by she tried to give Tom a hint, which he did not take at all kindly. 

"Women never like to see another woman admired, " he replied with asarcastic smile. 

"But, Tom, " she pleaded, "her father would be so dreadfully angry if hesaw the way you go on with her. "

"Oh, shut up, do, about her father!" said Tom crossly. "You have crammedhim down our throats quite enough. "

It was of no use to say more; but she went away feeling sore andruffled. She was just about to set off with Rose to Charles Osmond'schurch when the door of the study was hastily opened. 

"Have you seen the last 'Longstaff Mercury'?" said Raeburn in the voicewhich meant that he was worried and much pressed for time. 

"It was in here yesterday, " said Erica. 

"Then, Tom, you must have moved it, " said Raeburn sharply. "It's a mostprovoking thing; I specially wanted to quote from it. "

"I've not touched it, " said Tom. "It's those servants; they never canleave the papers alone. "

He was turning over the contents of a paper rack, evidently not in thebest of tempers. Rose sprang forward. 

"Let me help, " she said with one of her irresistible smiles. 

Erica felt more provoked than she would have cared to own. It was veryclear that those two would never find anything. 

"Look here, Erica, " said Raeburn, "do see if it isn't upstairs. Tom is aterrible hand at finding things. "

So she searched in every nook and cranny of the house and at last foundthe torn remains of the paper in the house maid's cupboard. The rest ofit had been used for lighting a fire. 

Raeburn was a good deal annoyed. 

"Surely, my dear, such things might be prevented, " he said, not crosslybut in the sort of forbearing expostulatory tone which a womandislikes more than anything, specially if she happens to be a carefulhousekeeper. 

"I told you it was your servants!" said Tom triumphantly. 

"They've orders again and again not to touch the newspapers, " saidErica. 

"Well, come along Tom, " said Raeburn, taking up his hat. "We are verylate. "

They drove off, and Erica and Rose made the best of their way tochurch, to find the service begun, and seats unattainable. Rose was verygood-natured, however, about the standing. She began faintly to perceivethat Erica did not lead the easiest of lives; also she saw, with asort of wonder, what an influence she was in the house and how, notwithstanding their difference in creed, she was always ready to meetthe others on every point where it was possible to do so. Rose couldnot help thinking of a certain friend of hers who, having become aritualist, never lost an opportunity of emphasizing the differencebetween her own views and the views of her family; and of Kate Rightonat Greyshot who had adopted the most rigid evangelical views, andtreated her good old father and mother as "worldly" and "unconverted"people. 

In the afternoon Tom had it all his own way. Raeburn was in his studypreparing for his evening lecture; Mrs. Craigie had a Bible class at theEast End, in which she showed up the difficulties and contradictions ofthe Old and New Testaments; Erica had a Bible class in Charles Osmond'sparish, in which she tried to explain the same difficulties. Rose wastherefore alone in the green room and quite ready to attract Tom andkeep him spellbound for the afternoon. It is possible, however, that nogreat harm would have been done if the visit had come to a natural endthe following day; Rose would certainly have thought no more of Tom, andTom might very possibly have come to his senses when she was no longerthere to fascinate him. But on the Sunday evening when the toils of theday were over, and they were all enjoying the restful home quiet whichdid not come very often in their busy lives, Rose's visit was brought toan abrupt close. 

Looked at by an impartial spectator, the green room would surely haveseemed a model of family peace and even of Sunday restfulness. Rosewas sitting at the piano playing Mendelssohn's "Christmas Pieces, " andgiving great pleasure to every one for art was in this house somewhatovershadowed by science, and it did not very often happen that theycould listen to such playing as Rose's which was for that reason adouble pleasure. Tom was sitting near her looking supremely peaceful. Onone side of the fireplace Mrs. Craigie and Mrs. MacNaughton were playingtheir weekly game of chess. On the other side Raeburn had his usualSunday evening recreation, his microscope. Erica knelt beside him, herauburn head close to his white one as they arranged their specimens orconsulted books of reference. The professor, who had looked in on hisway home from the lecture to borrow a review, was browsing contentedlyamong the books on the table with the comfortable sense that he mightjustifiably read in a desultory holiday fashion. 

It was upon this peaceful and almost Sabbatical group that a disturbingelement entered in the shape of Mr. Fane-Smith. He stood for an instantat the door, taking in the scene, or rather taking that superficial viewwhich the narrow-minded usually take. He was shocked at the chessmen;shocked at that profane microscope, and those week-day sections ofplants; shocked at the music, though he must have heard it played as avoluntary on many church organs, and not only shocked, but furious, atfinding his daughter in a very nest of secularists. 

Every one seemed a little taken aback when he entered. He took no noticewhatever of Raeburn, but went straight up to Rose. 

"Go and put on your things at once, " he said; "I have come to take youhome. "

"Oh, papa, " began Rose, "how you--"

"Not a word, Rose. Go and dress, and don't keep me waiting. "

Erica, with a vain hope of making Mr. Fane-Smith behave at leastcivilly, came forward and shook hands with him. 

"I don't think you have met my father before, " she said. 

Raeburn had come a few steps forward; Mr. Fane-Smith inclined his abouta quarter of an inch; Raeburn bowed, then said to Erica:

"Perhaps Mr. Fane-Smith would prefer waiting in my study. "

"Thanks, I will wait where I am, " said Mr. Fane-Smith, pointedly, ignoring the master of the house and addressing Erica. "Thank you, " asshe offered him a chair, "I prefer to stand. Have the goodness to seethat Rose is quick. "

"Thinks the chair's atheistical!" remarked Tom to himself. 

Raeburn, looking a degree more stately than usual, stood on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, not in the least forgiving his enemy, butmerely adopting for himself the most dignified role. Mr. Fane-Smith afew paces off with his anger and ill-concealed contempt did not showto advantage. Something in the relative sizes of the two struck theprofessor as comically like Landseer's "Dignity and Impudence. " Hewould have smiled at the thought had he not been very angry at thediscourteous treatment his friend was receiving. Mrs. MacNaughton satwith her queen in her hand as though meditating her next move, but inreality absorbed in watching the game played by the living chess-menbefore her. Tom at last broke the uncomfortable silence by asking theprofessor about some of Erica's specimens, and at length Rose came down, much to every one's relief, followed by Erica, who had been helping herto collect the things. 

"Are you ready?" said her father. "Then come at once. "

"Let me at least say goodbye, papa, " said Rose, very angry at beingforced to make this undignified and, as she rightly felt, rude exit. 

"Come at once, " said Mr. Fane-Smith in an inexorable voice. As he leftthe room he turned and bowed stiffly. 

"Go down and open the door for them, Tom, " said Raeburn, who throughoutMr. Fane-Smith's visit had maintained a stern, stately silence. 

Tom, nothing loth, obeyed. Erica was already half way downstairs withthe guests, but he caught them up and managed to say goodbye to Rose, even to whisper a hope that they might meet again, to which Rose repliedwith a charming blush and smile which, Tom flattered himself, meant thatshe really cared for him. Had Rose gone quietly away the next morning, he would not have been goaded into any such folly. A cab was waiting;but, when Rose was once inside it, her father recovered his power ofspeech and turned upon Erica as they stood by the front door. 

"I should have thought, " he said in an angry voice, "that after ouranxiety to persuade you to leave your home, you might have known thatI should never allow Rose to enter this hell, to mix with blasphemingatheists, to be contaminated by vile infidels!"

Erica's Highland hospitality and strong family loyalty were so outragedby the words that to keep silent was impossible. 

"You forget to whom you are speaking, " she said quickly. "You forgetthat this is my father's house!"

"I would give a good deal to be able to forget, " said Mr. Fane-Smith. "Ihave tried to deal kindly with you, tried to take you from this accursedplace, and you repay me by tempting Rose to stay with you!"

Erica had recovered herself by this time. Tom, watching her, could notbut wonder at her self-restraint. She did not retaliate, did not evenattempt to justify her conduct; at such a moment words would have beenworse than useless. But Tom, while fully appreciating the common senseof the non-resistance, was greatly astonished. Was this his old playmatewho had always had the most deliciously aggravating retort ready? Wasthis hot-tempered Erica? That Mr. Fane-Smith's words were hurting hervery much he could see; he guessed, too, that the consciousness that he, a secularist, was looking on at this unfortunate display of Christianintolerance, added a sting to her grief. 

"It is useless to profess Christianity, " stormed Mr. Fane-Smith, "if youopenly encourage infidelity by consorting with these blasphemers. Youare no Christian! A mere Socinian a Latitudinarian!"

Erica's lips quivered a little at this; but she remembered that Christhad been called harder names still by religious bigots of His day, andshe kept silence. 

"But understand this, " continued Mr. Fane-Smith, "that I approve lessthan ever of your intimacy with Rose, and until you come to see yourfolly in staying here, your worse than folly your deliberate choice ofhome and refusal to put religious duty first there had better be no moreintercourse between us. "

"Can you indeed think that religious duty ever requires a child to breakthe fifth commandment?" said Erica with no anger but with a certainsadness in her tone. "Can you really think that by leaving my father Ishould be pleasing a perfectly loving God?"

"You lean entirely on your own judgment!" said Mr. Fane-Smith; "ifyou were not too proud to be governed by authority, you would see thatprecedent shows you to be entirely in the wrong. St. John rushed fromthe building polluted by the heretic Cerinthus, a man who, compared withyour father, was almost orthodox!"

Erica smiled faintly. 

"If that story is indeed true, I should think he remembered before longa reproof his intolerance brought him once. 'Ye know not what spirit yeare of. " And really, if we are to fall back upon tradition, I may quotethe story of Abraham turning the unbeliever out of his tent on astormy night. 'I have suffered him these hundred years, ' was the Lord'sreproof, 'though he dishonored Me, and couldst thou not endure him forone night?' I am sorry to distress you, but I must do what I know to beright. 

"Don't talk to me of right, " exclaimed Mr. Fane-Smith with a shudder. "You are wilfully putting your blaspheming father before Christ. ButI see my words are wasted. Let me pass! The air of this house isintolerable to me!"

He hurried away, his anger flaming up again when Tom followed him, closing the door of the cab with punctilious politeness. Rose wasfrightened. 

"Oh, papa, " she said, trembling, "why are you so angry? You haven't beenscolding Erica about it? If there was any fault anywhere, the fault wasmine. What did you say to her, papa? What have you been doing?"

Mr. Fane-Smith was in that stage of anger when it is pleasant to repeatall one's hot words to a second audience and, moreover, he wanted toimpress Rose with the enormity of her visit. He repeated all that hehad said to Erica, interspersed with yet harder words about her perverseself-reliance and disregard for authority. 

Rose listened, but at the end she trembled no longer. She had in hera bit of the true Raeburn nature with its love of justice and itsreadiness to stand up for the oppressed. 

"Papa, " she said, all her spoiled-child manners and little affectationsgiving place to the most perfect earnestness, "papa, you must forgive mefor contradicting you, but you are indeed very much mistaken. I may havebeen silly to go there. Erica did try all she could to persuade me to goback to Greyshot yesterday; but I am glad I stayed even though youare so angry about it. If there is a noble, brave girl on earth, it isErica! You don't know what she is to them all, and how they all loveher. I will tell you what this visit has done for me. It has made meashamed of myself, and I am going to try to be wiser, and less selfish. "

It was something of an effort to Rose to say this, but she had been verymuch struck with the sight of Erica's home life, and she wanted to proveto her father how greatly he had misjudged her cousin. Unfortunately, there are some people in this world who, having once got an idea intotheir heads, will keep it in the teeth of the very clearest evidence tothe contrary. 

In the meantime, Tom had rejoined Erica in the hall. 

"How can such a brute have such a daughter?" he said. "Never mind, Cugina, you were a little brick, and treated him much better than hedeserved. If that is a Christian, and this a Latitudinarian and all theother heresies he threw at your head, all I can say is, commend me toyour sort, and may I never have the misfortune to encounter another ofhis!"

Erica did not reply; she felt too sick at heart. She walked slowlyupstairs, trying to stifle the weary longing for Brian which, thoughvery often present, became a degree less bearable when her isolatedposition between two fires, as it were had been specially emphasized. 

"That's a nice specimen of Christian charity!" said Aunt Jean as theyreturned to the green room. 

"And he set upon Erica at the door and hurled hard names at her as fastas he could go, " said Tom, proceeding to give a detailed account of Mr. Fane-Smith's parting utterances. 

Erica picked up Tottie and held him closely, turning, as all lovers ofanimals do in times of trouble, to the comforting devotion of those dumbfriends who do not season their love with curiosity or unasked advice, or that pity which is less sympathetic than silence, and burdens uswith the feeling that our sad "case" will be gossiped over in the samepitying tones at afternoon teas and morning calls. Tottie could notgossip, but he could talk to her with his bright brown eyes, and dosomething to fill a great blank in her life. 

Tom's account of the scene in the hall made every one angry. 

"And yet, " said Mrs. MacNaughton, "these Christians, who used to us suchlanguage as this, own as their Master one who taught that a mere angryword which wounded a neighbor should receive severe punishment!"

Raeburn said nothing, only watched Erica keenly. She was leaning againstthe mantel piece, her eyes very sad-looking, and about her face thatexpression of earnest listening which is characteristic of those whoare beginning to learn the true meaning of humility and "righteousjudgment. " She had pushed back the thick waves of hair which usuallyovershadowed her forehead, and looked something between a lion with atangled mane and a saint with a halo. 

"Never mind, " said the professor, cheerfully, "it is to bigotry likethis that we shall owe our recovery of Erica. And seriously, what canyou think of a religion which can make a man behave like this to one whohad never injured him, who, on the contrary, had befriended his child?"

"It is not Christ's religion which teaches him to do it, " said Erica, "it is the perversion of that religion. "

"Then in all conscience the perversion is vastly more powerful andextended than what you deem the reality. "

"Unfortunately yes, " said Erica, sighing. "At present it is. "

"At present!" retorted the professor; "why, you have had more thaneighteen hundred years to improve it. "

"You yourself taught me to have patience with the slow processes ofnature, " said Erica, smiling a little. "If you allow unthinkable agesfor the perfecting of a layer of rocks, do you wonder that in a fewhundred years a church is still far from perfect?"

"I expect perfection in no human being, " said the professor, taking upa Bible from the table and turning over the pages with the air of a manwho knew its contents well; "when I see Christians in some sort obeyingthis, I will believe that their system is the true system; but notbefore. " He guided his finger slowly beneath the following lines: "'Letall bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil-speaking beput away from you, with all malice. ' There is the precept, you see, anda very good precept, to be found in the secularist creed as well; butnow let us look at the practice. See how we secularists are treated!Why, we live as it were in a foreign land, compelled to keep the law yetdenied the protection of the law! 'Outlaws of the constitution, outlawsof the human race, ' as Burke was kind enough to call us. No! When I seeChristians no longer slandering our leaders, no longer coining hatefullies about us out of their own evil imaginations, when I see equaljustice shown to all men of whatever creed, then, the all-conqueringlove. Christianity has yet to prove itself the religion of love; atpresent it is the religion of exclusion. "

Mrs. MacNaughton, who was exceedingly fond of Erica, looked sorry forher. 

"You see, Erica, " she said, "the professor judges by averages. No onewould deny that some of the greatest men in the world have been, and areeven in the present day, Christians; they have been brought up in it, and can't free themselves from its trammels. You have a few people likethe Osmonds, a few really liberal men; but you have only to see howthey are treated by their confreres to realize the illiberality of thereligion as a whole. "

"I think with you, " said Erica, "that if the revelation of God'slove, and His purpose for all, be only to be learned from the lives ofChristians, it is a bad lookout for us. But God HAS given us one perfectrevelation of Himself, and the Perfect Son can make us see plainly evenwhen the imperfect sons are holding up to us a distorted likeness of theFather. "

She had spoken quietly, but with the tremulousness of strong feeling, and, moreover, she was so sensitive that the weight of the hostileatmosphere oppressed her, and made speaking a great difficulty. Whenshe had ended, she turned away from the disapproving eyes to the onlysympathetic eyes in the room the dog's. They looked up into hers withthat wistful endeavor to understand the meaning of something beyondtheir grasp, which makes the eyes of animals so pathetic. 

There was a silence; her use of the adjective "perfect" had beenvery trying to all her hearers, who strongly disapproved of the wholesentence; but then she was so evidently sincere and so thoroughlylovable that no one liked to give her pain. 

Aunt Jean was the only person who thought there was much chance of herever returning to the ranks of secularism; she was the only one whospoke now. 

"Well, well, " she said, pityingly, "you are but young; you will thinkvery differently ten years hence. "

Erica kept back an angry retort with difficulty, and Raeburn, whose keensense of justice was offended, instantly came forward in her defense, though her words had been like a fresh stab in the old wound. 

"That is no argument, Jean, " he said quickly. "It is the very unjustextinguisher which the elders use for the suppression of individualityin the young. "

As he spoke, he readjusted a slide in his microscope, making it plain toall that he intended the subject to be dropped. He had a wonderful wayof impressing his individuality on others, and the household settleddown once more into the Sabbatical calm which had been broken by abigoted Sabbatarian. 

Nothing more was heard of Rose, nor did Erica have an opportunity oftalking over the events of that Sunday with her father for some days forhe was exceedingly busy; the long weeks wasted during the summer inthe wearisome libel case having left upon his hands vast arrearsof provincial work. In some of the large iron foundries you may seehundreds of different machines all kept in action by a forty horse-powerengine; and Raeburn was the great motive-power which gave life to allthe branches of Raeburnites which now stretched throughout the lengthand breadth of the land. Without him they would have relapsed, veryprobably, into that fearfully widespread mass of indifference which isnot touched by any form of Christianity or religious revival, but whichhad responded to the practical, secular teaching of the singularlypowerful secularist leader. He had a wonderful gift of stirring up theheretofore indifferent, and making them take a really deep interestin national questions. This was by far the happiest part of hislife because it was the healthy part of it. The sameness of hisanti-theological work, and the barrenness of mere down-pulling, weredistasteful enough to him; he was often heartily sick of it all, andhad he not thought it a positive duty to attack what he deemed a verymischievous delusion, he would gladly have handed over this part of hiswork to some one else, and devoted himself entirely to national work. 

He had been away from home for several days, lecturing in the north ofEngland. Erica was not expecting his return till the following day, whenone evening a telegram was brought in to her. It was from her father tothis effect:

"Expect me home by mail train about two A. M. Place too hot to hold me. "

He had now to a great extent lived down the opposition which had madelecturing in his younger days a matter of no small risk to life andlimb; but Erica knew that there were reasons which made the people ofAshborough particularly angry with him just now. Ashborough was one ofthose strange towns which can never be depended upon. It was renownedfor its riots, and was, in fact (to use a slang word) a "rowdy" place. More than once in the old days Raeburn had been roughly handled there, and Erica bore a special grudge to it, for it was the scene of herearliest recollection one of those dark pictures which, having beenindelibly traced on the heart of a child, influence the whole characterand the future life far more than some people think. 

It was perhaps old memory which made her waiting so anxious thatevening. Moreover, she had at first no one to talk to, which made itmuch worse. Aunt Jean had gone to bed with a bad toothache, and must onno account be disturbed; and Tom had suddenly announced his intentionthat morning of going down to Brighton on his bicycle, and had set off, rather to Erica's dismay, since, in a letter to Charles Osmond, Donovanhappened to have mentioned that the Fane-Smiths had taken a house therefor six weeks. She hated herself for being suspicious; but Tom had beenso unlike himself since Rose's visit, and it was such an unheard-ofthing that he should take a day's holiday during her father's absence, that it was scarcely possible to avoid drawing the natural inference. She was very unhappy about him, but did not of course feel justified insaying a word to any one else about the matter. Charles Osmond happenedto look in for a few minutes later on, expecting to find Raeburnat home, and then in her relief she did give him an account of theunfortunate Sunday though avoiding all mention of Tom. 

"It was just like you to come at the very time I was wanting some one totalk to, " she said, sitting down in her favorite nook on the hearth rugwith Friskie on her lap. "Not a word has been said of that miserableSunday since though I'm afraid a good deal has been thought. After all, you know, there was a ludicrous side to it as well. I shall never forgetthe look of them all when Rose and I came down again: Mr. Fane-Smithstanding there by the table, the very incarnation of contemptuous anger, and father just here, looking like a tired thunder cloud! But, thoughone laughs at one aspect of it, one could cry one's eyes out overthe thing as a whole indeed, just now I find myself agreeing with Mr. Tulliver that it's a 'puzzling world. '"

"The fact is, " said Charles Osmond, "that you consent patiently enoughto share God's pain over those who don't believe in Him; but you grumblesorely at finding a lack of charity in the world; yet that pain is God'stoo. "

"Yes, " sighed Erica; "but somehow from Christians it seems so hard!"

"Quite true, child, " he replied, half absently. "It is hard most hard. But don't let it make you uncharitable, Erica. You are sharing God;'spain, but remember it is only His perfect love which makes that painbearable. "

"I do find it hard to love bigots, " said Erica, sighing. "They! What dothey know about the thousand difficulties which have driven people intosecularism? If they could but see that they and their narrow theoriesand their false distortions of Christ's Gospel are the real cause of itall, there would be some hope! But they either can't see it or won't. "

"My dear, we're all a lot of blind puppies together, " said CharlesOsmond. "We tumble up against each other just for want of eyes. We shallsee when we get to the end of the nine days, you know. "

"You see now, " said Erica; "you never hurt us, and rub us the wrongway. "

"Perhaps not, " he replied, laughing. "But Mr. Roberts and some of myother brethren would tell a different tale. By the bye, would you careto help another befogged mortal who is in the region you are safely outof? The evolution theory is the difficulty, and, if you have time toenter into his trouble, I think you could help him much better than Ican. If I could see him, I might tackle him; but I can't do it on paper. You could, I think; and, as the fellow lives at the other side of theworld, one can do nothing except by correspondence. "

Erica was delighted to undertake the task, and she was particularlywell fitted for it. Perhaps no one is really qualified for the post ofa clearer of doubts who has not himself faced and conquered doubts of asimilar nature. 

So there was a new interest for her on that long, lonely evening, and, as she waited for her father's return, she had time to think out quietlythe various points which she would first take up. By and by she slept alittle, and then, in the silence of the night, crept down to the lowerregions to add something to the tempting little supper which she hadready in the green room. But time crept on, and in the silence she couldhear dozens of clocks telling each hour, and the train had been longdue, and still her father did not come. 

At last she became too anxious to read or think to any purpose; she drewaside the curtain, and, in spite of the cold, curled herself upon thewindow seat with her face pressed close to the glass. Watching, in aliteral sense, was impossible, for there was a dense fog, if possible, worse than the fog of the preceding Saturday, but she had the feelingthat to be by the window made her in some unaccountable way nearer toher father, and it certainly had the effect of showing her that therewas a very good reason for unpunctuality. 

The old square was as quiet as death. Once a policeman raised her hopesfor a minute by pacing slowly up the pavement, but he passed on, and allwas still once more except that every now and then the furniture in theroom creaked, making the eerie stillness all the more noticeable. Ericabegan to shiver a little, more from apprehension than from cold. Shewished the telegram had come from any other town in England, andtried in vain not to conjure up a hundred horrible visions of possiblecatastrophes. At length she heard steps in the distance, and strainingher eyes to penetrate the thick darkness of the murky night, was ableto make out just beneath the window a sort of yellow glare. She randownstairs at full speed to open the door, and there upon the step stooda link-boy, the tawny light from his torch showing up to perfectionthe magnificent proportions of the man in a shaggy brown Inverness, whostood beside him, and bringing into strong relief the masses of whitehair and the rugged Scottish face which, spite of cold and greatweariness, bore its usual expression of philosophic calm. 

"I thought you were never coming, " said Erica. "Why, you must be halffrozen! What a night it is!"

"We've been more than an hour groping our way from the station, " saidRaeburn; "and cabs were unattainable. " Then, turning to the link-boy, "Come in, you are as cold and hungry as I am. Have you got somethinghot, Eric?"

"Soup and coffee, " said Erica. "Which would he like best?"

The boy gave his vote for soup, and, having seen him thoroughlysatisfied and well paid, they sent him home, and to his dying day he wasproud to tell the story of the foggy night when the people's tribunehad given him half of his own supper. The father and daughter weresoon comfortably installed beside the green room fire, Raeburn making ahearty meal though it was past three o'clock. 

"I never dreamed of finding you up, little son Eric, " he said when thewarmth and the food had revived him. "I only telegraphed for fear youshould lock up for the night and leave me to shiver unknown on thedoorstep. "

"But what happened?" asked Erica. "Why couldn't you lecture?"

"Ashborough had worked itself up into one of its tumults, and the foolsof authorities thought it would excite a breach of the peace, which wasexcited quite as much and probably more by my not lecturing. But I'm notgoing to be beaten! I shall go down there again in a few weeks. "

"Was there any rioting?"

"Well, there was a roughish mob, who prevented my eating my dinner inpeace, and pursued me even into my bedroom; and some of the Ashboroughlambs were kind enough to overturn my cab as I was going to the station. But, having escaped with nothing worse than a shaking, I'll forgive themfor that. The fact is they had burned me in effigy on the 5th and had somuch enjoyed the ceremony that, when the original turned up, they reallycouldn't be civil to him, it would have been so very tame. I'm toldthe effigy was such a fearful-looking monster that it frightened thebairnies out of their wits, specially as it was first carried all roundthe place on a parish coffin!"

"What a hateful plan that effigy-burning is!" said Erica. "Were you notreally hurt at all when they upset your cab?"

"Perhaps a little bruised, " said Raeburn, "and somewhat angry with mycharitable opponents. I didn't so much mind being overturned, but I hatebeing balked. They shall have the lecture, however, before long; I'mnot going to be beaten. On the whole, they couldn't have chosen a worsenight for their little game. I seriously thought we should never gropeour way home through that fog. It has quite taken me back to my youngdays when this sort of thing met one on every hand; and there was nolittle daughter to cheer me up then, and very often no supper either!"

"That was when you were living in Blank Street?"

"Yes, in a room about the size of a sentry box. It was bearable allexcept the black beetles! I've never seen such beetles before or sincetwice the size of the ordinary ones. I couldn't convince the landladythat they even existed; she always maintained that they never rose tothe attics; but one night I armed myself with Cruden's Concordance and, thanks to its weight and my good aim, killed six at a time, and producedthe corpses as evidence. I shall never forget the good lady's face!'You see, sir, ' she said, 'they never come by day; they 'ates the lightbecause their deeds is evil. '"

"Were the beetles banished after that?" asked Erica, laughing. 

"No, they went on to the bitter end, " said Raeburn with one of hisbright, humorous looks. "And I believe the landlady put it all down tomy atheistical views a just retribution for harboring such a notoriousfellow in her house! But there, my child, we mustn't sit up any longergossiping; run off to bed. I'll see that the lights are all out. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. Dreeing Out the Inch

 Skepticism for that century we must consider as the decay of old ways of believing, the preparation afar off for new, better, and wider ways an inevitable thing. We will not blame men for it; we will lament their hard fate. We will understand that destruction of old forms is not destruction of everlasting substances; that skepticism, as sorrowful and hateful as we see it, is not an end but a beginning. Carlyle

One June evening, an elderly man with closely cropped iron-gray hair, might have been seen in a certain railway carriage as the Folkestonetrain reached its destination. The Cannon Street platform was, as usual, the scene of bustle and confusion, most of the passengers were met byfriends or relatives, others formed a complete party in themselves, and, with the exception of the elderly man, there was scarcely a unitamong them. The fact of his loneliness would not, of course, have beenspecially remarkable had it not been that he was evidently in the laststage of some painful illness; he was also a foreigner and, not beingaccustomed to the English luggage system, he had failed to secure aporter as the train drew up and so, while the others were fighting theirway to the van, he, who needed assistance more than any of them, wasleft to shift for himself. He moved with great difficulty, draggingdown from the carriage a worn black bag, and occasionally muttering tohimself, not as a peevish invalid would have done, but as if it were asort of solace to his loneliness. 

"The hardest day I've had, this! If I had but my Herzblattchen now, howquickly she would pilot me through this throng. Ah well! Having managedto do the rest, I'll not be beaten by this last bit. Potztausend! TheseEnglish are all elbows!"

He frowned with pain as the self-seeking crowd pushed and jostled him, but never once lost his temper, and at length, after long waiting, his turn came and, having secured his portmanteau, he was before longdriving away in the direction of Bloomsbury. His strength was fastebbing away, and the merciless jolting of the cab evidently tried himto the utmost, but he bore up with the strong endurance of one who knowsthat at the end of the struggle relief awaits him. 

"If he is only at home, " he muttered to himself, "all will be well. He'll know where I ought to go; he'll do it all for me in the best way. ACH! Gott in himmel! But I need some one!"

With an excruciating jerk the cab drew up before a somewhat grim-lookinghouse; Had he arrived at the himmel he had just been speaking of, thetraveler could not have given an exclamation of greater relief. Hecrawled up the steps, overruled some question on the part of theservant, and was shown into a brightly lighted room. At one glance hehad taken in the whole of that restful picture so welcome to his soreneed. It was a good sized room, lined with books, which had evidentlyseen good service, many of them had been bought with the price offoregone meals, almost all of them embodied some act of denial. Abovethe mantel piece hung a little oil painting of a river scene, the solething not strictly of a useful order, for the rest of the contents ofthis study were all admirably adapted for working purposes, but were thereverse of luxurious. 

Seated at the writing table was the master of the house, who hadimpressed his character plainly enough on his surroundings. He lookedup with an expression of blank astonishment on hearing the name of hisvisitor, then the astonishment changed to incredulity; but, whenthe weary traveler actually entered the room, he started up with anexclamation of delight which very speedily gave place to dismay when hesaw how ill his friend was. 

"Why, Haeberlein!" he said, grasping his hand, "what has happened toyou?"

"Nothing very remarkable, " replied Haeberlein, smiling. "Only a greatwish to see you before I die. " Then, seeing that Raeburn's face changedfearfully at these words, "Yes, it has come to that, my friend. I've avery short time left, and I wanted to see you; can you tell me of roomsnear here, and of a decent doctor?"

"Of a doctor, yes, " said Raeburn, "of one who will save your life, Ihope; and for rooms there are none that I know of except in this house, where you will of course stay. "

"With the little Herzblattchen to nurse me?" said Haeberlein with a sighof weary content as he sank back in an arm chair. "That would be a veryperfect ending; but think what the world would say of you if I, whohave lent a hand to so much that you disapprove, died in your house;inevitably you would be associated with my views and my doings. "

"May be!" said Raeburn. "But I hope I may say that I've never refusedto do what was right for fear of unpleasant consequences. No, no, myfriend, you must stay here. A hard life has taught me that, for one inmy position, it is mere waste of time to consider what people will say;they will say and believe the worst that can be said and believed aboutme; and thirty years of this sort of thing has taught me to pay verylittle regard to appearances. "

As he spoke he took up the end of a speaking tube which communicatedwith the green room, Haeberlein watching his movements with the placid, weary indifference of one who is perfectly convinced that he is in theright hands. Presently the door opened and Erica came in. Haeberleinsaw now what he had half fancied at Salzburg that, although lovingdiminutives would always come naturally to the lips when speaking ofErica, she had in truth lost the extreme youthfulness of manner whichhad always characterized her. It had to a great extent been crushed outof her by the long months of wearing anxiety, and though she was oftenas merry and kittenish as ever her habitual manner was that of a strong, quick temperament kept in check. The restraint showed in everything. She was much more ready to hear and much less ready to criticize, herhumorous talk was freer from sarcasm, her whole bearing characterized bya sort of quiet steadfastness which made her curiously like her father. His philosophical calm had indeed been gained in a very different way, but in each the calmness was the direct result of exceptionally tryingcircumstances brought to bear on a noble nature. 

"Herr Haeberlein has come here to be nursed, " said Raeburn when thegreetings were over. "Will you see that a room is got ready, dear?"

He went out into the hall to dismiss the cab, and Haeberlein seized theopportunity to correct his words. 

"He thinks I shall get better, but it is impossible, my Herzblattchen;it is only a question of weeks now, possibly only of days. Was I wrongto come to you?"

"Of course not, " she said with the sort of tender deference with whichshe always spoke to him. "Did you think father would let you go anywhereelse?"

"I didn't think about it, " said Haeberlein wearily; "but he wouldn't, yousee. "

Raeburn returned while he was speaking, and Erica went away quickly tosee to the necessary preparations. Herr Haeberlein had come, and she didnot for a moment question the rightness of her father's decision; butyet in her heart she was troubled about it, and she could see that bothher aunt and Tom were troubled too. The fact was that for some timethey had seen plainly enough that Raeburn's health was failing, and theydreaded any additional anxiety for him. A man can not be involvedin continual and harassing litigation and at the same time agitateperseveringly for reform, edit a newspaper, write books, rush fromLand's End to John O'Groat's, deliver lectures, speak at mass meetings, teach science, befriend every unjustly used person, and go through theenormous amount of correspondence, personal supervision, and inevitableinterviewing which falls to the lot of every popular leader, withoutsooner or later breaking down. 

Haeberlein had come, however, and there was no help for it. They all didtheir very utmost for him, and those last weeks of tender nursing wereperhaps the happiest of his life. Raeburn never allowed any one to seehow the lingering expectation, the dark shadow of the coming sorrow, tried him. He lived his usual busy life, snatching an hour whenever hecould to help in the work of nursing, and bringing into the sick roomthe strange influence of his strength and serenity. 

The time wore slowly on. Haeberlein, though growing perceptibly weaker, still lingered, able now and then to enter into conversation, but forthe most part just lying in patient silence, listening with a curiousimpartiality to whatever they chose to read to him, or whatever theybegan to talk about. He had all his life been a man of no particularcreed, and he retained his curious indifference to the end, though Ericafound that he had a sort of vague belief in a First Cause, and a shadowyexpectation of a personal existence after death. She found this outthrough Brian, who had a way of getting at the minds of his patients. 

One very hot afternoon she had been with him for several hours whenabout five o'clock her father came into the room. Another prosecutionunder the blasphemy Laws had just commenced. He had spent the whole dayin a stifling law court, and even to the dying man his exhaustion wasapparent. 

"Things gone badly?" he asked. 

"Much as I expected, " said Raeburn, taking up a Marechal Niel rosefrom the table and studying it abstractedly. "I've had a sentenceof Auerbach's in my head all day, 'The martyrdom of the modern worldconsists of a long array of thousands of trifling annoyances. ' Thesethings are in themselves insignificant, but multiplication makes them agreat power. You have been feeling this heat, I'm afraid. I will relieveguard, Erica. Is your article ready?"

"Not quite, " she replied, pausing to arrange Haeberlein's pillows whileher father raised him. 

"Thank you, little Herzblattchen, " he said, stroking her cheek, "aufwiedersehen. "

"Auf wiedersehen, " she replied brightly and, gathering up some papers, ran downstairs to finish her work for the "Daily Review. "

A few minutes later Brian came in for his second visit. 

"Any change?" he asked. 

"None, I think, " she answered, and went on with her writing with anapprehensive glance every now and then at the clock. The office boy wasmercifully late however, and it must have been quite half an hour aftershe had left Haeberlein's room that she heard his unwelcome ring. Lateas it was, she was obliged to keep him waiting a few minutes for it wasexceedingly difficult in those days to get her work done. Not only wasthe time hard to obtain, but the writing itself was a difficulty; hermind was occupied with so many other things, and her strength was soovertasked that it was often an effort almost intolerable to sit downand write on the appointed subject. 

She was in the hall giving her manuscript to the boy when she saw herfather come downstairs; she followed him into the study, and one look athis face told her what had happened. He was leaning back in the chairin which but a few weeks before she had seen Haeberlein himself; it cameover her with a shudder that he looked almost as ill now as his friendhad looked. She sat down on the arm of his chair, and slipped her handinto his, but did not dare to break the silence. At last he looked up. 

"I think you know it, " he said. "It is all over, Erica. "

"Was Brian there?" she asked. 

"Happily, yes; but there was nothing to be done. The end was strangelysudden and quite painless, just what one would have wished for him. Butoh, child! I can ill spare such a friend just now!"

His voice failed, and great tears gathered in his eyes. He let his headrest for a minute on Erica's shoulder, conscious of a sort of relief inthe clasp of arms which had so often, in weak babyhood, clung to himfor help, conscious of the only comfort there could be for him as hischild's kisses fell on his lips, and brow, and hair. 

"I am overdone, child, " he said at length as though to account forbreaking down, albeit, by the confession, which but a short time beforehe would never have made, that his strength was failing. 

All through the dreary days that followed, Erica was haunted by thosewords. The work had to go on just as usual, and it seemed to tell on herfather fearfully. The very cay after Haeberlein's death it was necessaryfor him to speak at a mass meeting in the north of England, and he cameback from it almost voiceless and so ill that they were at their wits'end to know what to do with him. The morrow did not mend matters forthe jury disagreed in the blasphemy trial, and the whole thing had to begone through again. 

A more trying combination of events could hardly have been imagined, and Erica, as she stood in the crowded cemetery next day at the funeral, thought infinitely less of the quixotic Haeberlein whom she had, nevertheless, loved very sincerely than of her sorely overtasked father. He was evidently in dread of breaking down, and it was with the greatestdifficulty that he got through his oration. To all present the sightwas a most painful one and, although the musical voice was hoarse andstrained, seeming, indeed, to tear out each sentence by sheer force ofwill, the orator had never carried his audience more completely withhim. Their tears were, however, more for the living than for the dead;for the man who was struggling with all his might to restrain hisemotion, painfully spurring on his exhausted powers to fulfill the dutyin hand. More than once Erica thought he would have fainted, and shewas fully prepared for the small crowd of friends who gathered round herafterward, begging her to persuade him to rest. The worst of it was thatshe could see no prospect of rest for him, though she knew how sorely helonged for it. He spoke of it as they drove home. 

"I've an almost intolerable longing for quiet, " he said to her. "Do youremember Mill's passage about the two main constituents of a satisfiedlife excitement and tranquillity? How willingly would I change placestoday with that Tyrolese fellow whom we saw last year!"

"Oh! If we could but go to the Tyrol again!" exclaimed Erica; butRaeburn shook his head. 

"Out of the question just now, my child; but next week when thisblasphemy trial is over, I must try to get a few days' holiday that isto say, if I don't find myself in prison. "

She sighed the sigh of one who is burdened almost beyond endurance. Forrecent events had proved to her, only too plainly, that her confidencethat no jury would be found to convict a man under the old blasphemylaws was quite mistaken. 

That evening, however, her thoughts were a little diverted from herfather. For the first time for many months she had a letter from Rose. It was to announce her engagement to Captain Golightly. Rose seemed veryhappy, but there was an undertone of regret about the letter which wasuncomfortably suggestive of her flirtation with Tom. Also there weresentences which, to Erica, were enigmatical, about "having been sofoolish last summer, " and wishing that she "could live that Brightontime over again. " All she could do was to choose the time and place fortelling Tom with discrimination. No opportunity presented itself tilllate in the evening when she went down as usual to say good night tohim, taking Rose's letter with her. Tom was in his "den, " a smallroom consecrated to the goddess of disorder books, papers, electricbatteries, crucibles, chemicals, new temperance beverages, and fishingrods were gathered together in wild confusion. Tom himself was stirringsomething in a pipkin over the gas stove when Erica came in. 

"An unfallible cure for the drunkard's craving after alcohol, " he said, looking up at her with a smile. "'A thing of my own invention, ' to quotethe knight in 'Through the Looking Glass. ' Try some?"

"No, thank you, " said Erica, recoiling a little from the veryodoriferous contents of the pipkin. "I have had a letter from Rose thisevening. "

Tom started visibly. 

"What, has Mr. Fane-Smith relented?" he asked. 

"Rose had something special to tell me, " said Erica, unfolding theletter. 

But Tom just took it from her hands without ceremony, and began to readit. A dark flush came over his face Erica saw that much, but afterwardwould not look at him, feeling that it was hardly fair. Presently hegave her the letter once more. 

"Thank you, " he said in a voice so cold and bitter that she could hardlybelieve it to be his. "As you probably see, I have been a fool. I shallknow better how to trust a woman in the future. "

"Oh, Tom, " she cried. "Don't let it--"

He interrupted her. 

"I don't wish to talk, " he said. "Least of all to one who has adoptedthe religion which Miss Fane-Smith has been brought up in a religionwhich of necessity debases and degrades its votaries. "

Her eyes filled with tears, but she new that Christianity would in thiscase be better vindicated by silence than by words however eloquent. Shejust kissed him and wished him good night. But as she reached the door, his heart smote him. 

"I don't say it has debased you, " he said; "but that that is its naturaltendency. You are better than your creed. "

"He meant that by way of consolation, " thought Erica to herself as shewent slowly upstairs fighting with her tears. 

But of course the consolation had been merely a sharper stab; for totell a Christian that he is better than his creed is the one intolerablething. 

What had been the extent of the understanding with Rose, Erica neverlearned, but she feared that it must have been equivalent to a promisein Tom's eyes, and much more serious than mere flirtation in Rose's, otherwise the regret in the letter was, from one of Rose's way ofthinking, inexplicable. From that time there was a marked change inTom; Erica was very unhappy about him, but there was little to be doneexcept, indeed, to share all his interests as much as she could, and totry to make the home life pleasant. But this was by no means easy. Tobegin with, Raeburn himself was more difficult than ever to work with, and Tom, who was in a hard, cynical mood, called him overbearing where, in former times, he would merely have called him decided. The very bestof men are occasionally irritable when they are nearly worked to death;and under the severe strain of those days, Raeburn's philosophic calmmore than once broke down, and the quick Highland temper, usually keptin admirable restraint, made itself felt. 

It was not, however, for two or three days after Haeberlein's funeralthat he showed any other symptoms of illness. One evening they were allpresent at a meeting at the East End at which Donovan Farrant was alsospeaking. Raeburn's voice had somewhat recovered, and he was speakingwith great force and fluency when, all at once in the middle ofa sentence, he came to a dead pause. For half a minute he stoodmotionless; before him were the densely packed rows of listening faces, but what they had come there to hear he had not the faintest notion. Hismind was exactly like a sheet of white paper; all recollection of thesubject he had been speaking on was entirely obliterated. Some men wouldhave pleaded illness and escaped, others would have blundered on. But Raeburn, who never lost his presence of mind, just turned to theaudience and said quietly: "Will some one have the goodness to tell mewhat I was saying? My memory has played me a trick. "

"Taxation!" shouted the people. 

A short-hand writer close to the platform repeated his last sentence, and Raeburn at once took the cue and finished his speech with perfectease. Every one felt, however, that it was an uncomfortable incident, and, though to the audience Raeburn chose to make a joke of it, he knewwell enough that it boded no good. 

"You ought to take a rest, " said Donovan to him when the meeting wasover. 

"I own to needing it, " said Raeburn. "Pogson's last bit of malice will, I hope, be quashed in a few days and, after that, rest may be possible. He is of opinion that 'there are mony ways of killing a dog though yedinna hang him, ' and, upon my word, he's not far wrong. "

He was besieged here by two or three people who wanted to ask hisadvice, and Donovan turned to Erica. 

"He has been feeling all this talk about Herr Haeberlein; people say themost atrocious things about him just because he gave him shelter at thelast, " she said. "Really sometimes the accusations are so absurd thatwe ourselves can't help laughing at them. But though I don't believe inbeing 'done to death by slanderous tongues, ' there is no doubt that theconstant friction of these small annoyances does tell on my fathervery perceptibly. After all, you know the very worst form of torture ismerely the perpetual falling of a drop of water on the victim's head. "

"I suppose since last summer this sort of thing has been on theincrease?"

"Indeed it has, " she replied. "It is worse, I think, than you have anyidea of. You read your daily paper and your weekly review, but everymalicious, irritating word put forth by every local paper in England, Scotland, or Ireland comes to us, not to speak of all that we get fromprivate sources. "

On their way home they did all in their power to persuade Raeburn totake an immediate holiday, but he only shook his head. 

"'Dree out the inch when ye have thol'd the span, '" he said, leaningback wearily in the cab but taking care to give the conversation anabrupt turn before relapsing into silence. 

At supper, as ill luck would have it, Aunt Jean relieved her fatigueand anxiety by entering upon one of her old remonstrances with Erica. Raeburn was not sitting at the table; he was in an easy chair at theother side of the room, and possibly she forgot his presence. Buthe heard every word that passed, and at last started up with angryimpatience. 

"For goodness' sake, Jean, leave the child alone!" he said. "Is it notenough for me to be troubled with bitterness and dissension outsidewithout having my home turned into an arguing shop?"

"Erica should have thought of that before she deserted her ownparty, " said Aunt Jean; "before, to quote Strauss, she had recourse to'religious crutches. ' It is she who has introduced the new element intothe house. "

Erica's color rose, but she said nothing. Aunt Jean seemed ratherbaffled by her silence. Tom watched the little scene with a sort ofphilosophic interest. Raeburn, conscious of having spoken sharply to hissister and fearing to lose his temper again, paced the room silently. Finally he went off to his study, leaving them to the unpleasantconsciousness that he had been driven out of his own dining room. Butwhen he had gone, the quarrel was forgotten altogether; they forgotdifferences of creed in a great mutual anxiety. Raeburn's manner hadbeen so unnatural, he had been so unlike himself, that in their troubleabout it they entirely passed over the original cause of his anger. AuntJean was as much relieved as any one when before long he opened his doorand called for Erica. 

"I have lost my address book, " he said; "have you seen it about?"

She began to search for it, fully aware that he had given her somethingto do for him just out of loving consideration, and with the hope thatit would take the sting from her aunt's hard words. When she broughthim the book, he took her face between both his hands, looked at hersteadily for a minute, and then kissed her. 

"All right, little son Eric, " he said, with a sigh. "We understand eachother. "

But she went upstairs feeling miserable about him, and an hour or twolater, when all the house was silent, her feeling of coming troublegrew so much that at length she yielded to one of those strange, blindimpulses which come to some people and crept noiselessly out on to thedark landing. At first all seemed to her perfectly still and perfectlydark; but, looking down the narrow well of the staircase, she could seefar below her a streak of light falling across the tiles in the passage. She knew that it must come from beneath the door of the study, and itmeant that her father was still at work. He had owned to having a badheadache, and had promised not to be late. It was perplexing. She stoledown the next flight of stairs and listened at Tom's door; then, findingthat he was still about, knocked softly. Tom, with his feet on themantel piece, was solacing himself with a pipe and a novel; he startedup, however, as she came in. 

"What's the matter?" he asked, "is any one ill?"

"I don't know, " said Erica, shivering a little. "I came to know whetherfather had much to do tonight; did he tell you?"

"He was going to write to Jackson about a situation for the eldestson of that fellow who died the other day, you know; the widow, poor creature, is nearly worried out of her life; she was here thisafternoon. The chieftain promised to see about it at once; he wouldn'tlet me write, and of course a letter from himself will be more likely tohelp the boy. "

"But it's after one o'clock, " said Erica, shivering again; "he can'thave been all this time over it. "

"Well, perhaps he is working at something else, " said Tom. "He'snot been sleeping well lately, I know. Last night he got throughthirty-three letters, and the night before he wrote a long pamphlet. "

Erica did not look satisfied. 

"Lend me your stove for a minute, " she said; "I shall make him a cup oftea. "

They talked a little about the curious failure of memory noticed for thefirst time that evening. Tom was more like himself than he had been forseveral days; he came downstairs with her to carry a light, but she wentalone into the study. He had not gone up the first flight of stairs, however, when he heard a cry, then his own name called twice in tonesthat made him thrill all over with a nameless fear. He rushed downand pushed open the study door. There stood Erica with blanched face;Raeburn sat in his customary place at the writing table, but his headhad fallen forward and, though the face was partly hidden by the desk, they could see that it was rigid and deathly pale. 

"He has fainted, " said Tom, not allowing the worse fear to overmasterhim. "Run quick, and get some water, Erica. "

She obeyed mechanically. When she returned, Tom had managed to getRaeburn on to the floor and had loosened his cravat; he had also noticedthat only one letter lay upon the desk, abruptly terminating at "I am, yours sincerely. " Whether the "Luke Raeburn" would ever be added, seemedto Tom at that moment very doubtful. Leaving Erica with her father, he rushed across the square to summon Brian, returning in a very fewminutes with the comforting news that he was at home and would be withthem immediately. Erica gave a sigh of relief when the quick, firm stepswere heard on the pavement outside. Brian was so closely associated withall the wearing times of illness and anxiety which had come to them inthe last six years that, in her trouble, she almost forgot the day atFiesole regarding him not as her lover, but as the man who had oncebefore saved her father's life. His very presence inspired her withconfidence, the quiet authority of his manner, the calm, business-likeway in which he directed things. Her anxiety faded away in theconsciousness that he knew all about it, and would do everything asit should be done. Before very long Raeburn showed signs of returningconsciousness, sighed uneasily; then, opening his eyes, regained hisfaculties as suddenly as he had lost them. 

"Halloo!" he exclaimed, starting up. "What's all this coil about? Whatare you doing to me?"

They explained things to him. 

"Oh! Fainted, did I!" he said musingly. "I have felt a little faint onceor twice lately. What day is it? What time is it?" Tom mentionedthe meeting of the previous evening, and Raeburn seemed to recollecthimself. He looked at his watch, then at the letter on his desk. "Well, it's my way to do things thoroughly, " he said with a smile; "I must havebeen off for a couple of hours. I am very sorry to have disturbed yourslumbers in this way. "

As he spoke, he sat down composedly at his desk, picked up the penand signed his name to the letter. They stood and watched him while hefolded the sheet and directed the envelope; his writing bore a littlemore markedly than usual the tokens of strong self-restraint. 

"Perhaps you'll just drop that in the pillar on your way home, " he saidto Brian. "I want Jackson to get it by the first post. If you will lookin later on, I should be glad to have a talk with you. At present I'mtoo tired to be overhauled. "

Then, as Brian left the room, he turned to Erica. 

"I am sorry to have given you a fright, my child; but don't worry aboutme, I am only a little overdone. "

Again that fatal admission, which from Raeburn's lips was more alarmingthan a long catalogue of dangerous symptoms from other men!

There followed a disturbed night and a long day in a crowded law court, then one of the most terrible hours they had ever had to endure whilewaiting for the verdict which would either consign Raeburn to prisonor leave him to peace and freedom. So horrible was the suspense that todraw each breath was to Erica a painful effort. Even Raeburn's composurewas a little shaken as those eternal minutes dragged on. 

The foreman returned. The court seemed to throb with excitement. Raeburnlifted a calm, stern face to hear his fate. He knew what no one else inthe court knew, that this was to him a matter of life and death. 

"Are you agreed, gentlemen?"

"Yes. "

People listened breathlessly. 

"Do you find the defendant guilty, or not?"

"Not guilty. "

The reaction was so sharp as to be almost overpowering. But poor Erica'sjoy was but short-lived. She looked at her father's face and knew that, although one anxiety was ended, another was already begun. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. Halcyon Days

 There is a sweetness in autumnal days, Which many a lip doth praise; When the earth, tired a little, and grown mute Of song, and having borne its fruit, Rests for a little ere the winter come. It is not sad to turn the face toward home, Even though it show the journey nearly done; It is not sad to mark the westering sun, Even though we know the night doth come, Silence there is, indeed, for song, Twilight for noon, But for the steadfast soul and strong Life's autumn is as June. From the "Ode of Life"

"Anything in the papers this evening?" asked a young clergyman, whowas in one of the carriages of the Metropolitan Railway late in theafternoon of an August day. 

"Nothing of much interest, " replied his wife, handing him the newspapershe had been glancing through. "I see that wretched Raeburn is ill. Iwish he'd die. "

"Oh! Broken down at last, has he?" said the other. "Where is it? Oh, yes, I see. Ordered to take immediate and entire rest. Will be paralyzedin a week if he doesn't. Pleasant alternative that! Result of excessiveoverwork. Fancy calling this blasphemous teaching work! I could hangthat man with my own hands!"

Erica had had a long and harassing day. She was returning from the citywhere she had gone to obtain leave of absence from Mr. Bircham; for herfather was to go into the quietest country place that could be found, and she of course was to accompany him. At the "Daily Review" office shehad met with the greatest kindness, and she might have gone home cheeredand comforted had it not been her lot to overhear this conversation. Tomwas with her. She saw him hastily transcribing the uncharitable remarks, and knew that the incident would figure in next week's "Idol-Breaker. "It was only a traceable instance of the harm done by all such words. 

"Will you change carriages?" asked Tom. 

"Yes, " she said; and as she rose to go she quietly handed her card tothe lady, who, it is to be hoped, learned a lesson thereby. 

But it would be unjust to show only the dark side of the picture. Greatsympathy and kindness was shown them at that time by many earnest andorthodox Christians, and though Raeburn used to accept this sympathywith the remark: "You see, humanity overcomes the baleful influences ofreligion in the long run, " yet he was always touched and pleased by thesmallest signs of friendliness; while to Erica such considerateness wasan inestimable help. The haste and confusion of those days, added to theanxiety, told severely on her strength; but there is this amount of goodin a trying bit of "hurrying life, " the rest, when it comes, is doublyrestful. 

It was about six o'clock on an August evening when Raeburn and Ericareached the little country town of Firdale. They were to take up theirabode for the next six weeks at a village about three miles off, oneof the few remaining places in England which maintained its primitivesimplicity, its peaceful quiet having never been disturbed by shriek ofwhistle or snort of engine. 

The journey from town had been short and easy, but Raeburn was terriblyexhausted by it; he complained of such severe headache that they madeup their minds to stay that night at Firdale, and were soon comfortablyestablished in the most charming old inn, which in coaching days hadbeen a place of note. Here they dined, and afterward Raeburn fell asleepon a big old-fashioned sofa, while Erica sat by the open window, able inspite of her anxiety to take a sort of restful interest in watching thetraffic in the street below. Such a quiet, easy-going life these Firdalepeople seemed to lead. They moved in such a leisurely way; bustle andhurry seemed an unknown thing. And yet this was market day, as wasevident by the country women with their baskets, and by occasionalprocessions of sheep or cattle. One man went slowly by driving ahuge pig; he was in sight for quite five minutes, dawdling along, and allowing the pig to have his own sweet will as far as speed wasconcerned, but occasionally giving him a gentle poke with a stick whenhe paused to burrow his nose in the mud. Small groups of men stoodtalking at the corner of the market place; a big family went by, evidently returning from a country walk; presently the lamps werelighted, and then immense excitement reigned in the little place for atthe corner where the two main streets crossed each other at right anglesa cheap-jack had set up his stall and, with flaring naptha lamps to showhis goods, was selling by auction the most wonderful clocks at the verylowest prices in fact, the most superior glass, china, clothing, andfurniture that the people of Firdale had ever had the privilege ofseeing. Erica listened with no little amusement to his fervid appeals tothe people not to lose this golden opportunity, and to the shy responsesof the small crowd which had been attracted and which lingered on, tempted yet cautious, until the cheap-jack had worked himself up intoa white heat of energetic oratory, and the selling became brisk andlively. 

By and by the silvery moonlight began to flood the street, contrastingstrangely with the orange glare of the lamps. Erica still leaned herhead against the window frame, still looked out dreamily at the Firdalelife, while the soft night wind lightly lifted the hair from herforehead and seemed to lull the pain at her heart. 

It was only in accordance with the general peacefulness when by and byher father crossed the room, looking more like himself than he had donefor some days. 

"I am better, Eric, " he said cheerfully "better already. It is just theconsciousness that there is nothing that need be done. I feel as ifI should sleep tonight. " He looked out at the moonlit street. "What aperfect night it is!" He exclaimed. "What do you say, little one; shallwe drive over to this rural retreat now? The good folks were told tohave everything ready, and they can hardly lock up before ten. "

She was so glad to see him take an interest in anything, and so greatlyrelieved by his recovery of strength and spirits, that she gladly fellin with the plan, and before long they set off in one of the wagonettesbelonging to the Shrub Inn. 

Firdale wound its long street of red-roofed houses along a shelteredvalley in between fir-crowned heights; beyond the town lay rich, fertile-looking meadows, and a winding river bordered by pollardwillows. Looking across these meadows, one could see the massive towerof the church, its white pinnacles standing out sharp and clear in themoonlight. As Raeburn and Erica crossed the bridge leading out of thetown, the clock in the tower struck nine, and the old chimes beganto play the tune which every three hours fell on the ears of theinhabitants of Firdale. 

"'Life let us cherish, '" said Raeburn with a smile. "A good omen for us, little one. "

And whether it was the mere fact that he looked so much more cheerfulalready, or whether the dear old tune, with its resolute good humor anddetermination to make the best of things, acted upon Erica's sensitivenature, it would be hard to say, but she somehow shook off all her caresand enjoyed the novelty of the moonlight drive like a child. Before longthey were among the fir trees, driving along the sandy road, thesweet night laden with the delicious scent of pine needles, and to theoverworked Londoners in itself the most delicious refreshment. All atonce Raeburn ordered the driver to stop and, getting out, stooped downby the roadside. 

"What is it?" asked Erica. 

"Heather!" he exclaimed, tearing it up by handfuls and returning to thecarriage laden. "There! Shut your eyes and bury your face in that, and you can almost fancy you're on a Scottish mountain. Brian deservesanything for sending us to the land of heather; it makes me feel like aboy again. "

The three miles were all too short to please them, but at lastthey reached the little village of Milford and were set down at acompact-looking white house known as Under the Oak. 

"That direction is charming, " said Raeburn, laughing; "imagine yourbusiness letters sent from the 'Daily Review' office to 'Miss Raeburn, Under the Oak, Milford!' They'll think we're living in a tent. You'll benicknamed Deborah!"

It was not until the next morning that they fully understood theappropriateness of the direction. The little white house had been builtclose to the grand old oak which was the pride of Milford. It was indeeda giant of its kind; there was something wonderfully fine about itsvigorous spread of branches and its enormous girth. Close by was apeaceful-looking river, flowing between green banks fringed with willowand marestail and pink river-herb. The house itself had a nice littlegarden, gay with geraniums and gladiolus, and bounded by a hedge ofsunflowers which would have gladdened the heart of an aesthete. All waspure, fresh, cleanly, and perfectly quiet. 

From the windows nothing was to be seen except the village green withits flocks of geese and its tall sign post; the river describing a sortof horseshoe curve round it, and spanned by two picturesque bridges. In the distance was a small church and a little cluster of houses, the"village" being completed by a blacksmith's forge and a post office. Tothis latter place they had to pay a speedy visit for, much to Raeburn'samusement, Erica had forgotten to bring any ink. 

"To think that a writer in the 'Daily Review' should forget such anecessary of life!" he said, smiling. "One would think you were yourlittle 'Cartesian-well' cousin instead of a journalist!"

However, the post office was capable of supplying almost anything likelyto be needed in the depths of the country; you could purchase therebread, cakes, groceries, hob-nailed boots, paper, ink, and mostdelectable toffee!

The relief of the country quiet was unlike anything which Erica hadknown before. There was, indeed, at first a good deal of anxiety abouther father. His acquiescence in idleness, his perfect readiness to spendwhole days without even opening a book, proved the seriousness of hiscondition. For the first week he was more completely prostrated than shehad ever known him to be. He would spend whole days on the river, tootired even to speak, or would drag himself as far as the neighboringwood and stretch himself at full length under the trees while she sat bysketching or writing. Bur Brian was satisfied with his improvement whenhe came down on one of his periodical visits, and set Erica's mind atrest about him. 

"You father has such a wonderful constitution, " he said as they paced toand fro in the little garden. "I should not be surprised if, in a coupleof months, he is as strong as ever; though most men would probably feelsuch an overstrain to the end of their days. "

After that, the time at Milford was pure happiness. Erica learned tolove every inch of that lovely neighborhood, from the hill of Rocksburywith its fir-clad heights, to Trencharn Lake nestled down among thesurrounding heath hills. In after years she liked to recall all thosepeaceful days, days when time had ceased to exist at any rate, asan element of friction in life. There was no hurrying here, and therecollection of it afterward was a perpetual happiness. The quiet riverwhere they had one day seen an otter, a marked event in their uneventfuldays; the farm with its red gables and its crowd of gobbling turkeys;the sweet-smelling fir groves with their sandy paths; and their ownparticular wood where beeches, oaks, and silvery birch trees wereintermingled, with here and there a tall pine sometimes stately anderect, sometimes blown aslant by the wind. 

Here the winding paths were bordered with golden moss, and sheltered bya tangled growth of bracken and bramble with now and then a little clumpof heather or a patch of blue harebells. Every nook of that place grewfamiliar to them and had its special associations. There was the shadypart under the beeches where they spent the hot days, and this wasalways associated with fragments of "Macbeth" and "Julius Caesar. " Therewas the cozy nook on the fir hill where in cool September they had readvolume after volume of Walter Scott, Raeburn not being allowed to haveanything but light literature, and caring too little for "society"novels to listen to them even now. There was the prettiest part of alldown below, the bit of sandy cliff riddled with nest holes by the sandmartins; here they discovered a little spring, the natural basin scoopedout in the rock, festooned with ivy and thickly coated with the prettygreen liverwort. Never surely was water so cold and clear as that whichflowed into the basin with its ground of white sand, and overflowed intoa little trickling stream; while in the distance was heard the roar ofthe river as it fell into a small waterfall. There was the ford fromwhich the place was named and which Erica associated with a long happyday when Brian had come down to see her father. She remembered how theyhad watched the carts and horses splashing though the clear water, goingin muddy on one side and coming out clean on the other. She had justlistened in silence to the talk between Brian and her father whichhappened to turn on Donovan Farrant. 

They discussed the effect of early education and surroundings uponthe generality of men, and Raeburn, while prophesying great things forDonovan's future and hoping that he might live to see his firstBudget, rather surprised them both by what he said about his tolerablewell-known early life. He was a man who found it very difficult to makeallowances for temptations he had never felt, he was convinced thatunder Donovan's circumstances he should have acted very differently, andhe made the common mistake of judging others by himself. His ruggedlyhonest nature and stern sense of justice could not get over those pastfailings. However, this opinion about the past did not interfere withhis present liking of the man. He liked him much; and when, towardthe end of their six weeks' stay at Milford, Donovan invited them toOakdene, he was really pleased to accept the invitation. He hoped tobe well enough to speak at an important political meeting at Ashboroughabout the middle of October, and as Ashborough was not far from Oakdene, Donovan wrote to propose a visit there en route. 

At length the last evening came. Raeburn and Erica climbed Rocksbury forthe last time, and in the cool of the evening walked slowly home. 

"I have always dreaded old age, " he said. "But I shall dread it no more. This has been a foretaste of the autumn of life, and it has been verypeaceful. I don't see why the winter should not be the same if I haveyou with me, little one. "

"You shall have me as long as I am alive, " she said, giving his stronghand a little loving squeeze. 

"Truth to tell, " said Raeburn, "I thought a few weeks ago that it wouldbe a case of 'Here lies Luke Raeburn, who died of litigation!' But, after all, to be able to work to the last is the happiest lot. Tis anenviable thing to die in harness. "

They were walking up a hill, a sort of ravine with steep high banks oneither side, and stately pines stretching their blue-green foliage upagainst the evening sky. A red glow of sunset made the dark stems looklike fiery pillars, and presently as they reached the brow of the hillthe great crimson globe was revealed to them. They both stood in perfectsilence watching till it sunk below the horizon. 

And a great peace filled Erica's heart though at one time her father'swish would have made her sad and apprehensive. In former times she hadset her whole heart on his learning before death that he was teachingerror. Now she had learned to add to "Thy will be done, " the clausewhich it takes some of us a life time to say, "Not my will. "

CHAPTER XXXIX. Ashborough

 There's a brave fellow! There's a man of pluck! A man who is not afraid to say his say, Though a whole town's against him. Longfellow

 A man's love is the measure of his fitness for good or bad company here or elsewhere. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

The week at Oakdene proved in every way a success; Raeburn liked hishost heartily, and the whole atmosphere of the house was a revelationto him. The last morning there had been a little clouded for news hadreached them of a terrible colliery accident in the north of England. The calamity had a special gloom about it for it might very easily havebeen prevented, the owners having long known that the mine was unsafe. 

"I must say it is a little hard to see how such a horrible sin ascarelessness of the lives of human beings can ever bring about thegreater good which we believe evil to do, " said Erica, as she took herlast walk in the wood with Donovan. 

"'Tis hard to see at the time, " he replied. "But I am convinced that itis so. The sin is never good, never right; but when men will sin, thenthe result of the sin, however frightful, brings about more goodthat the perseverance in sin with no catastrophe would have done. Alonger-deferred good, of course, than the good which would have resultedby adhering from the first to the right, and so far inferior. "

"Of course, " said Erica, "I can see that a certain amount of immediategood may result from this disaster. It will make the owners of othermines more careful. "

"And what of the hundred unseen workings that will result from it?" saidDonovan, smiling. "In the first shock of horror one can not even glimpsethe larger view, but later on--"

He paused for a minute; they were down in the valley close to the littlechurch; he opened the gate and led the way to a bench under the greatyew tree. Sitting here, they could see the recumbent white cross withits ever-fresh crown of white flowers. Erica knew something of the storyit told. 

"Shall I tell you what turned me from an anti-theist to an atheist?"said Donovan. "It was the horror of knowing that a little child's lifehad been ruined by carelessness. I had been taught to believe in aterrific phantom who was severely just; but when it seemed that the onequality of justice was gone, then I took refuge in the conviction thatthere could be no God at all. That WAS a refuge for the time, for it isbetter to believe in no God than to believe in an immoral God and it waslong years before a better refuge found me. Yet, looking back nowover these seven-and-twenty years, I see how that one little child'ssuffering has influenced countless lives! How it was just the mostbeautiful thing that could have happened to her!"

Erica did not speak for a moment, she read half dreamily the wordsengraved on the tombstone. Nearly sixteen years since that short, uneventful life had passed into the unseen, and yet little Dot was atthis moment influencing the world's history. 

She was quite cheerful again as they walked home, and, indeed, herrelief about her father's recovery was so great that she could not beunhappy for long about anything. They found Raeburn on the terrace withRalph and Dolly at his heels, and the two-year-old baby, who went by thename of Pickle, on his shoulder. 

"I shall quite miss these bairnies, " he said as Donovan joined them. 

"Gee up, horsey! Gee up!" shouted Pickle from his lofty perch. 

"And oh, daddy, may we go into Gleyshot wiv you?" said Dolly, coaxingly. "Elica's father's going to give me a playcat. "

"And me a whip, " interposed Ralph. "We may come with you, father, mayn'twe?"

"Oh! Yes, " said Donovan, smiling; "if Mr. Raeburn doesn't mind a crowdedcarriage. "

Erica had gone into the house. 

"I don't know how to let you go, " said Gladys, "We have so much enjoyedhaving you. I think you had much better stay here will Monday and leavethose two to take care of themselves at Ashborough. "

"Oh, no, " said Erica, smiling, "that would never do! You don't realizewhat an event this is to me. It is the first time father has spokensince his illness. Besides, I have not yet quite learned to think himwell enough to look after himself though, of course, he is getting quitestrong again. "

"Well, since you will go, come and choose a book for your journey, " saidGladys. 

"Oh, I should like that, " said Erica; "a nice homish sort of book, please, where the people lived in Arcadia and never heard of lawcourts!"

Early in the afternoon they drove to Greyshot, stopping first of all atthe toy shop. Raeburn, who was in excellent spirits, fully enteredinto the difficulties of Dolly's choice. At length a huge toy cat wasproduced. 

"Oh, I should like that one!" said Dolly, clapping her hands. "What a'normous, gleat big cat it is!"

"I shouldn't have known what it was meant for, " said Raeburn, scrutinizing the rather shapeless furry quadruped. "How is it that youcan't make them more like cats than this?"

"I don't know, sir, how it is, " said the shopwoman; "we get very gooddogs and rabbits, and donkeys, but they don't seem to have attained tothe making of cats. "

This view of the matter so tickled Raeburn that he left Ralph and Dollyto see the "'normous gleat big cat" wrapped up, and went out of the shoplaughing. 

But just outside, a haggard, wild-looking man came up to him and beganto address him in excited tones. 

"You are the vile atheist, Luke Raeburn!" he cried, "Oh, I know you wellenough. I tell you, you have lost my son's soul; do you hear, wretchedinfidel, you destroyed my son's soul! His guilt is upon you! And I willhave vengeance! Vengeance!"

"My friend, " said Raeburn quietly, "supposing your son had what you calla soul, do you think that I, a man, should be able to destroy it?"

"You have made him what you are yourself, " cried the man, "an accursedinfidel, an incarnate devil! But I tell you I will have vengeance, vengeance!"

"Have the goodness not to come so near my daughter, " said Raeburn forthe man was pushing up roughly against Erica, who had just come out ofthe shop. The words were spoken in such an authoritative manner that theman shrunk back awed, and in another minute the children had rejoinedthem, and they drove off to the station. 

"What was that man saying?" asked Erica. 

"Apparently his son has become a secularist, and he means to revengehimself on me, " said Raeburn. "If it wouldn't have lost me this train, I would have given him in charge for using threatening language. But nodoubt the poor fellow was half-witted. "

Donovan had walked on to the station and so had missed this incident, and though for the time it saddened Erica, yet she speedily forgot it intalking to the children. The arrival at Ashborough, too, was exciting, and she was so delighted to see her father once more in the enjoymentof full health and strength that she could not long be disquieted aboutanything else. It was a great happiness to her to hear him speak uponany subject on which they were agreed, and his reception that eveningat the Ashborough Town Hall was certainly a most magnificent one. Theringing cheers made the tears start to her eyes. The people had beenroused by his late illness and, though many of them disliked histheological views, they felt that in political matters he was a man whomthey could very ill spare. His speech was a remarkably powerful one, andcalculated to do great good. Erica's spirits rose to their very highestpitch and, as they went back together to their hotel, she kept bothRaeburn and Donovan in fits of laughter. It was long months since herfather had seen her so brilliant and witty. 

"You are 'fey, ' little one, " he said. "I prophesy a headache for youtomorrow. "

And the prophecy came true for Erica awoke the next morning with a senseof miserable oppression. The day, too, was gray and dreary-looking, itseemed like a different world altogether. Raeburn was none the worsefor his exertions; he took a quiet day, however, went for a walk withDonovan in the afternoon, and set off in good time for his eveninglecture. It was Sunday evening, Erica was going to church with Donovan, and had her walking things on when her father looked into the room tosay goodbye. 

"What, going out?" he said. "You don't look fit for it, Eric. "

"Oh!" she said, "it is no use to give way to this sort of headache; it'sonly one's wretched nerves. "

"Well, take carte of yourself, " he said, kissing her. "I believe youare worn out with all these weeks of attendance on a cantankerous oldfather. "

She laughed and brightened up, going out with him to the head of thestairs, and returning to watch him from the window. Just as he left thedoor of the hotel, a small child fell face downward on the pavement onthe opposite side of the road and began to cry bitterly. Raeburn crossedover and picked up the small elf; they could hear him saying: "There, there, more frightened than hurt, I think, " as he brushed the dust fromthe little thing's clothes. 

"How exactly like father!" said Erica, smiling; "he never would let usthink ourselves hurt. I believe it is thanks to him that Tom has grownup such a Stoic, and that I'm not a very lachrymose sort of being. "

A little later they started for church, but toward the end of the PsalmsDonovan felt a touch on his arm. He turned to Erica; she was a white asdeath, and with a strange, glassy look in her eyes. 

"Come, " she said in a hoarse whisper, "come out with me. "

He thought she felt faint, but she walked steadily down the aisle. Whenthey were outside she grasped his arm and seemed to make a great effortto speak naturally. 

"Forgive me for disturbing you, " she said, "but I have such a dreadfulfeeling that something is going to happen. I feel that I must go to myfather. "

Donovan thought that she was probably laboring under a delusion. He knewthat she was always very anxious about her father and that Ashborough, owing to various memories, was exactly the place where this anxietywould be likely to weigh upon her. He thought, too, that Raeburn wasvery likely right and that she was rather overdone by the strain ofthose long weeks of solitary attendance. But he was much too wise toattempt to reason away her fears; he knew that nothing but her father'spresence would set her at rest, and they walked as fast as they could tothe Town Hall. He was just turning down a street which led into the HighStreet when Erica drew him instead in the direction of a narrow byway. 

"Down here, " she said, walking straight on as though she held someguiding clew in her hand. 

He was astonished as she could not possibly have been in this part ofthe town before. Moreover, her whole bearing was very strange; she wasstill pale and trembling, and her ungloved hands felt as cold as icewhile, although he had given her his arm, he felt all the time that shewas leading him. 

At length a sound of many voices was heard in the distance. Donovan felta sort of thrill pass through the hand that rested on his arm, and Ericabegan to walk more quickly than ever. A minute more, and the littlebyway led them out into the market place. It was lighted with theelectric light, and tonight the light was concentrated at one end, theend at which stood the Town Hall. Instinctively Donovan's eyes wereturned at once toward that brightest point and also toward the sound, the subdued roar of the multitude which they had heard on their way. There was another sound, too a man's ringing voice, a stentorian voicewhich reached them clearly even at that distance. Raeburn stood alone, facing an angry, tumultuous throng, with his back to the closed doorof the building and his tawny eyes scanning the mass of hostile facesbelow. 

"Every Englishman has a right to freedom of speech. You shall not rob meor any other man of a right. I have fought for this all my life, and Iwill fight as long as I've breath. "

"That shall not be long!" shouted another speaker. "Forward, brothers!Down with the infidel! Vengeance, vengeance. "

The haggard, wild-looking man who had addressed Raeburn the day beforeat Greyshot now sprang forward; there was a surging movement in thecrowd like wind in a corn field. Donovan and Erica, hurrying forward, saw Raeburn surrounded on every side, forced away from the door, andat length half stunned by a heavy blow from the fanatical leader; then, taken thus at a disadvantage, he was pushed backward. They saw him fallheavily down the stone steps. 

With a low cry Erica rushed toward him, breaking away from Donovan andforcing a way through that rough crowd as if by magic. Donovan, thoughso much taller and stronger, was longer in reaching the foot of thesteps, and when at length he had pushed his way through the thickestpart of the throng he was hindered for the haggard-looking man whohad been the ringleader in the assault ran into his very arms. He wasevidently struck with horror at the result of his mad enterprise and nowmeditated flight. But Donovan stopped him. 

"You must come with me, my friend, " he exclaimed, seizing the fanatic bythe collar. 

Nor did he pause till he had handed him over to a policeman. Then oncemore he forced a passage through the hushed crowd and at last reachedthe foot of the steps. He found Erica on the ground with her father'shead raised on her knees. He was perfectly unconscious, but it seemedas if his spirit and energy had been transmitted to his child. Ericawas giving orders so clearly and authoritatively that Donovan could onlymarvel at her strength and composure. 

"Stand back!" she was saying as he approached. "How can he come to whileyou are shutting out the air? Some one go quickly and fetch a door or alitter. You go, and you. "

She indicated two or three more respectable-looking men, and they atonce obeyed her. She looked relieved to see Donovan. 

"Won't you go inside and speak to the people?" she said. "I have sentfor a doctor. If some one doesn't go soon, they will come out, and thenthere might be a riot. Tell them if they have any feeling for my fatherto separate quietly. Don't let them all out upon these people; there issure to be fighting if they meet. "

Donovan could not bear to leave her in such a position, but just then adoctor came up, and the police began to drive back the crowd; and sincethe people were rather awed by what had happened, they dispersed meeklyenough. Donovan went into the Town Hall then, and gradually learned whathad taken place. It seemed that soon after the beginning of Raeburn'slecture, a large crowd had gathered outside, headed by a mannamed Drosser, a street preacher, well-known in Ashborough and theneighborhood. This crowd had stormed the doors of the hall and hadcreated such an uproar that it was impossible to proceed with thelecture. The doors had been quite unequal to the immense pressure fromwithout, and Raeburn, foreseeing that they would give way and knowingthat, if the insurgents met his audience, there would be serious risk tothe lives of many, had insisted on trying to dismiss the crowd without, or, at any rate, to secure some sort of order. Several had offered to gowith him, but he had begged the audience to keep still and had gone outalone the crowd being so astonished by this unexpected move that theyfell back for a moment before him. Apparently his plan would havesucceeded very well had it not been for Drosser's deliberate assault. Hehad gained a hearing from the people and would probably have dispersedthem had he not been borne down by brute force. 

It was no easy task to tell the audience what had happened; but Donovanwas popular and greatly respected and, thanks to his tact, their wrath, though very great, was restrained. In fact, Raeburn was so well knownto disapprove of any sort of violence that Donovan's appeal to themto preserve order for his sake met with a deep, suppressed murmur ofassent. When all was safe he hurried back to the hotel where they wereglad enough of his services. Raeburn had recovered his senses for aminute but only to sink almost immediately into another swoon. For manyhours this went on; he would partly revive, even speak a few words, and then sink back once more. Every time Erica thought it would endin death, nor could she gather comfort from the looks of either of thedoctors or of Donovan. 

"This is not the first time I've been knocked down and trampled on, "said Raeburn, faintly, in one of his intervals of consciousness, "but itwill be the last time. "

And though the words were spoken with a touch of his native humorand might have borne more than one interpretation, yet they answeredpainfully to the conviction which lay deep in Erica's heart. 

"Then let me send a telegram from the 'Ashborough Times' office, " saidDonovan to her in one of the momentary pauses. "I have sent for yourcousin and Mrs. Craigie and for Brian. "

For the first time Erica's outward composure gave way. Her mouth beganto quiver and her eyes to fill. 

"Oh! Thank you, " she said; and there was something in her voice thatwent to Donovan's heart. 

CHAPTER XL. Mors Janua Vitae

 Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name? Builder and maker Thou, of houses not made with hands! What, have fear of change from Thee who art ever the same? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that Thy power expands?

 And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fullness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? R. Browning

Early on the Monday morning three anxious-looking travelers arrived bythe first train from London, and drove as fast as might be to the ParkHotel at Ashborough. They were evidently expected for the moment theircab stopped a door on one of the upper floors was opened, and some oneran quickly down the stairs to meet them. 

"Is he better?" asked Aunt Jean. 

Erica shook her head and, indeed, her face told them much more thanthe brief words of the telegram. She was deathly white, and had thatweighed-down look which people wear when they have watched all nightbeside one who is hovering between life and death. She seemed to recoverherself a little as her hand rested for a moment in Brian's. 

"He has been asking for you, " she said. "Do go to him. The faintnesshas quite passed off, and they say inflammation has set in; he is infrightful pain. "

Her lips grew a shade whiter as she spoke and, with an effort, sheseemed to turn away from some horrible recollection. 

"There is some breakfast ready for you in here, " she said to her aunt. "You must have something before you see him. Oh, I am so glad you havecome, auntie!"

Aunt Jean kissed her and cried a little; trouble always brought thesetwo together however much they disagreed at other times. Tom did not saya word, but began to cut a loaf to pieces as though they had thevery largest appetites; the great pile of slices lay untouched on thetrencher, but the cutting had served its purpose of a relief to hispent-up feelings. 

Later on there was a consultation of doctors; their verdict was perhapsa little more hopeful than Erica had dared to expect. Her father hadreceived a fearful internal injury and was in the greatest danger, butthere was still a chance that he might recover, it was just possible;and knowing how his constitution had rallied when every one had thoughthim dying three years before, she grew very hopeful. Without hope shecould hardly have got through those days for the suffering was terrible. She hardly knew which she dreaded most, the nights of fever and deliriumwhen groans of anguish came from the writhing lips, or the days withtheir clear consciousness when her father never uttered a word ofcomplaint but just silently endured the torture, replying always, ifquestioned as to the pain, "It's bearable. "

His great strength and vigor made it seem all the more piteous that heshould now be lying in the very extremity of suffering, unable to beareven the weight of the bed clothes. But all through that weary time hisfortitude never gave way, and the vein of humor which had stood him insuch good stead all his life did not fail him even now. On the Mondaywhen he was suffering torments, they tried the application of leeches. One leech escaped, and they had a great hunt for it, Raeburn astonishingthem all by coming out with one of his quaint flashes of wit andpositively making them laugh in spite of their anxiety and sorrow. 

The weary days dragged on, the torture grew worse, opium failed todeaden the pain, and sleep, except in the very briefest snatches, wasimpossible. But at last on the Thursday morning a change set in, thesuffering became less intense; they knew, however, that it was onlybecause the end was drawing near and the life energy failing. 

For the second time Sir John Larkom came down from London to see thepatient, but every one knew that there was nothing to be done. EvenErica began to understand that the time left was to be measured onlyby hours. She learned it in a few words which Sir John Larkom said toDonovan on the stairs. She was in her own room with the door partlyopen, eagerly waiting for permission to go back to her father. 

"Oh, it's all up with the poor fellow, " she heard the London doctor say. "A wonderful constitution; most men would not have held out so long. "

At the time the words did not convey any very clear meaning to Erica;she felt no very sharp pang as she repeated the sentence to herself;there was only a curious numb feeling at her heart and a sort of dullconsciousness that she must move, must get away somewhere, do somethingactive. It was at first almost a relief to her when Donovan returned andknocked at her door. 

"I am afraid we ought to come to the court, " he said. "They will, I amsure, take your evidence as quickly as possible. "

She remembered then that the man Drosser was to be brought up before themagistrates that morning; she and Donovan had to appear as witnesses ofthe assault. She went into her father's room before she started; hehad specially asked to see her. He was quite clear-minded and calm, and began to speak in a voice which, though weak and low, had the oldmusical ring about it. 

"You are going to give evidence, Eric, " he said, holding her hand inhis. "Now, I don't forgive that fellow for having robbed me of life, butone must be just even to one's foes. They will ask you if you ever sawDrosser before; you will have to tell them of that scene at Greyshot, and you must be sure to say that I said, as we drove off: 'No doubt thepoor fellow is half-witted. ' Those were my words, do you remember?"

"Yes, " she said, repeating the words after him at his request. "Iremember quite well. "

"Those words may affect Drosser's case very much, and I don't wish anyman to swing for me I have always disapproved of the death penalty. Probably, though, it will be brought in as manslaughter yes, almostcertainly. There go, my child, and come back to me as soon as you can. "

But the examination proved too much for Erica's physical powers; she wasgreatly exhausted by the terrible strain of the long days and nightsof nursing, and when she found herself in a hot and crowded court, pitilessly stared at, confronted by the man who was in fact her father'smurderer, and closely questioned by the magistrate about all the detailsof that Sunday evening, her overtasked strength gave way suddenly. 

She had told clearly and distinctly about the meeting at Greyshot, andhad stated positively that in the Ashborough market place she had seenDrosser give her father a heavy blow and then push him down the TownHall steps. 

"Can you recollect whether others pushed your father at the same time?"asked the magistrate. "Don't answer hurriedly; this is an importantmatter. "

All at once the whole scene came vividly before Erica the huge crowd, the glare of the lights, her father standing straight and tall, as sheshould never see him again, his thick white hair stirred by the wind, his whole attitude that of indignant protest; then the haggard face ofthe fanatic, the surging movement in the black mass of people, and thatawful struggle and fall. Was it he who was falling? If so she was surelywith him, falling down, down, endlessly down. 

There was a sudden stir and commotion in the court, a murmur of pity, for Luke Raeburn's daughter had fallen back senseless. 

When she came to herself, she was lying on the floor of an office-likeroom, with her head on Mrs. MacNaughton's lap. Brian was bending overher, chafing her hands. A clock in the building struck one, and thesound seemed to recall things to her mind. She started up. 

"Oh!" she cried, "why am I not with my father? Where have you taken meto?"

"It's all right, dear, " said Mrs. MacNaughton soothingly; "you shall comeback directly you are well enough. "

"I remember it all now, " she said; "did I finish? Must I go back there?"

It was some relief to know that Donovan had been able to supplement herevidence, and that the examination was in fact over, Drosser having beenremanded for a week. She insisted on going back to the hotel at once, and spent the whole of the afternoon and evening with her father. He wasnot in great pain now, but very restless, and growing weaker every hour. He was able, however, to see several of his friends, and though thefarewells evidently tried him, he would not refuse to see those who hadcome hundreds of miles for that last glimpse. 

"What does it matter if I am exhausted?" he said when some oneremonstrated with him. "It will make no difference at all as far as Iam concerned, and it will be a happiness to them for the rest of theirlives. Besides, I shall not die today, perhaps not tomorrow; depend uponit, I shall die hard. "

They persuaded Erica to rest for the first part of the night. She leftTom and Brian to watch, and went to her room, making them promise tocall her if there were any signs of change. 

At last the full realization had come to her; though she hated leavingher father, it was yet a sort of relief to get away into the dark, to beable to give way for a moment. 

"Anything but this, oh, God, " she sobbed, "anything but this!"

All else would have been easy enough to bear, but that he should bekilled by the violence and bigotry of one who at any rate called himselfa Christian, this seemed to her not tolerable. The hope of years hadreceived its death blow, the life she most loved was sinking away indarkness, the work which she had so bravely taken as her life work wasall but over, and she had failed. Yes, in spite of all her efforts, allher longings, all her love, she had failed, or at any rate apparentlyfailed, and in moments of great agony we do not in fact can notdistinguish between the real and the apparent. Christ Himself could notdo it. 

She did not dare to let her sobs rise for it was one of the trials ofthat time that they were not in their own home but in a busy hotel wherethe partitions were thin and every sound could be heard in the adjoiningrooms. Moreover, Aunt Jean was sleeping with her and must not bedisturbed. But as she lay on the floor, trying to stifle the restrainedsobs which shook her from head to foot trying to check the bitter tearswhich would come, her thoughts were somehow lifted quite away from thepresent; strange little memories of her childish days returned to her, days when her father had been to her the living incarnation of all thatwas noble and good. Often it is not the great events of a child's lifewhich are so vividly remembered; memory seems to be strangely capriciousand will single out some special word or deed, some trifling sign oflove which has stamped itself indelibly upon the grain to bear itsgolden harvest of responding love through a life time. Vividly therecame back to her now the eager happiness with which she had awaited along promised treat, as a little thing of seven years old. Her fatherwas to take her on some special excursion, she had long ago forgottenwhat the particular occasion was, only it was something that could comebut once, the day lost, the treat would be lost. But the evening before, when she was on the very tiptoe of expectation, a celebrated action forlibel had come to an end much sooner than was expected, and when herfather returned in the evening he had to tell her that his case was tocome on the next day, and that he could not possibly take her. Evennow she could recall the bitterness of the disappointment, but not sovividly as the look in her father's face as he lifted her off the floorwhere she had thrown herself in the abandonment of her grief. He hadnot said a word then about the enormity of crying, he had just held herclosely in his arms, feeling the disappointment a thousand times morethan she felt it herself, and fully realizing that the loss of such along-looked-for happiness was to a child what the loss of thousands ofpounds would be to a man. He had been patient with her though she hadentirely failed to see why he could not put off the case just for thatday. 

"You'll understand one day, little one, " he had said, "and be glad thatyou have had your share of pain in a day that will advance the cause ofliberty. "

She remembered protesting that that was impossible, that she shouldalways be miserable; at which he had only smiled. 

Then it came to Erica that the life upon earth was, after all, ascompared with the eternal life, what the day is in the life of a child. It seemed everything at the time, but was in truth such a fragment. Andas she lay there in the immeasurably greater agony of later life, oncemore sobbing: "I had hoped, I had planned, this is more than I canbear!" a Comforter infinitely grater, a Father whose love was infinitelystronger, drew her so near that the word "near" was but a mockery, andtold her, as the earthly father had told her with such perfect truth:"One day you will understand, child; one day you will be glad to haveshared the pain!"

In the next room there was for some time quiet. Poor Tom, heavy withgrief and weariness, fell asleep beside the fire; Raeburn was for themost part very still as if wrapped in thought. At length a heavy sighmade Brian ask if he were in pain. 

"Pain of mind, " he said, "not of body. Don't misunderstand me, " hesaid after a pause, with the natural fear least Brian should fancy hissecularism failed him at the near approach of death. "For myself I amcontent; I have had a very full life, and I have tried always yes, Ithink I may say always--to work entirely for the good of Humanity. ButI am wretched about Erica. I do not see how the home can be a very happyone for her when I am gone. "

For a minute Brian hesitated; but it seemed to him when he thought outthe matter, that a father so loving as Raeburn would find no jealousy atthe thought that the love he had deemed exclusively his own might, afterall, have been given to another. 

"I do not know whether I am right to tell you, " he said. "Would it makeyou happier to know that I love Erica that I have loved her for nearlynine years?"

Raeburn gave an ejaculation of astonishment. There was a long silence;for the idea, once suggested to him, he began to see what a likely thingit was and to wonder that he had not thought of it before. 

"I think you are well suited to each other, " he said at last. "NowI understand your visit to Florence. What took you away again sosuddenly?"

Brian told him all about the day at Fiesole. He seemed greatly touched;all the little proofs and coincidences which had never struck him atthe time were so plain now. They were still discussing it when, atabout five o'clock, Erica returned. She was pale and sad, but the worn, harassed, miserable look had quite gone. It was a strange time and placefor a betrothal. 

"Brian has been telling me about the day at Fiesole, " said Raeburn, letting his weak, nerveless hands play about in her hair as she kneltbeside the bed. "You have been a leal bairn to me, Eric; I don't thinkI could have spared you then even though Brian so well deserved you. Butnow it makes me very happy to leave you to him; it takes away my onlycare. "

Erica had colored faintly, but there was an absence of responsiveness inher manner which troubled Raeburn. 

"You do still feel as you did at Fiesole?" he asked. "You are sure ofyour own mind? You think you will be happy?"

"I love Brian, " she said in a low voice. "But, oh, I can't think nowabout being happy!" She broke off suddenly and hid her face in the bedclothes. 

There was silence in the room. In a minute she raised herself and turnedto Brian who stood beside her. 

"You will understand, " she said, looking right into his eyes. "There isonly one thing that I can feel just now. You do understand, I know. "

With a sudden impulse she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

And Brian did understand. He knew, too, that she wanted to have herfather to herself. Even in the very fulfillment of his desire he wasobliged to stand aside, obliged even yet to be patient. Never surely hadan impulsive, impetuous man a longer training. 

When he had gone Raeburn talked for some time of Erica's future, talkedfor so long, indeed, that she grew impatient. How trifling now seemedthe sacrifice she had made at Fiesole to which he kept on referring. 

"Oh, why do you waste the time in talking of me?" she said at last. 

"Why?" he said smiling. "Because you are my bairn of what else shouldI speak or think? For myself, I am very content, dear, though I shouldhave liked a few more years of work. It was not to be, you see; and, inthe end, no doubt this will work good to the cause of--" he broke off, unwilling to pain her. 

"Ah, child!" he said after a pause, "How miserable you and I might havebeen for these two years if we had not loved each other. You are not tothink, little one, that I have not known what your wishes have been forme. You, and Brian, and Osmond, and of late that noble fellow Farrant, have often made me see that Christianity need not necessarily warp theintellect and cripple the life. I believe that for you, and such asyou, the system is not rooted in selfishness. But, dear, you are but theexceptions, the rare exceptions. I know that you have wished with allyour heart that I should come to think as you do, while I have beenwishing you back into the ranks of secularism. Well! It wasn't to be. Weeach of us lost our wish. But there is this left, that we each know theother to be honest; each deem it a case of honest mistake. I've feltthat all along. We've a common love of truth and a common love ofhumanity. Oh, my child! Spite of all the creeds, we are very near toeach other!"

"Very near, " she whispered. And words which Charles Osmond had spokenyears ago returned to her memory. "I think death will be your gate oflife. You will wake up and exclaim: 'Who'd have thought it?'"

After all, death would in a sense make them yet nearer! But human natureis weak, and it is hard for us to realize the Unseen. She could notthen feel that it was anything but hard, bitter, heart-breaking that heshould be leaving her in this way. 

The pain had now almost entirely ceased, and Raeburn, though veryrestless, was better able to talk than on the previous day. He asked forthe first time what was passing in the world, showed special interest inthe accounts of the late colliery accident, and was greatly touchedby the gallant efforts of the rescuers who had to some extent beensuccessful. He insisted, too, on hearing what the various papers hadto say about his own case, listening sometimes with a quiet smile, sometimes with a gleam of anger in his eyes. After a very abusivearticle, which he had specially desired to hear, he leaned back with anair of weariness. 

"I'm rather tired of this sort of thing!" he said with a sigh. "Whatwill the 'Herald' do when it no longer has me to abuse?"

Of Drosser and of the events of that Sunday evening he spoke strangelylittle. What he did say was, for the most part, said to Professor Gosse. 

"You say I was rash to go alone, " he replied when the professor hadopened the subject. "Well, that may be. It is not, perhaps, the firsttime that in personal matters I've been lacking in due caution. But Ithought it would prevent a riot. I still think it did so. "

"And what is your feeling about the whole matter?" asked the professor. "Do you forgive Drosser for having given you this mortal injury?"

"One must bow to necessity, " said Raeburn quietly. "When you speak offorgiving I don't quite understand you; but I don't intend to hand downa legacy of revenge to my successors. The law will duly punish the man, and future atheists will reap the benefit of my death. There is, afterall, you know, a certain satisfaction in feeling that I died as I havelived, in defending the right of free speech. I can't say that I couldnot have wished that Drosser had made an end of me at nine-and-seventyrather than at nine-and-forty. I shall live on in their hearts, and thatis a glorious immortality! The only immortality I have ever looked for. "

In the afternoon to the astonishment of all, Mr. Fane-Smith came overfrom Greyshot, horrified to hear that the man who he had once treatedwith scant justice and actual discourtesy was lying on his death bed, a victim to religious fanaticism. Spite of his very hard words to her, Erica had always respected Mr. Fane-Smith, and she was glad that he hadcome at the last. Her aunt had not come; she had hesitated long, but inthe end the recollection that Greyshot would be greatly scandalized, andthat, too, on the very eve of her daughter's wedding turned the scale. She sent affectionate messages and a small devotional book, but stayedat home. 

Mr. Fane-Smith apologized frankly and fully to Raeburn for his formerdiscourtesy and then plunged at once into eager questions and eagerarguments. He could not endure the thought that the man in whom at thelast he was able to recognize a certain nobility of character, should besinking down into what he considered everlasting darkness. Bitterlydid he now regret the indifference of former years, and the actualuncharitableness in which he had of late indulged. 

Raeburn lay very passively listening to an impassioned setting forth ofthe gospel, his hands wandering about restlessly, picking up little bitsof the coverlet in that strange way so often noticed in dying people. 

"You are mistaken, " he said when at length Mr. Fane-Smith ceased. "Hadyou argued with me in former years, you would never have convinced me, your books and tracts could never have altered my firm convictions. All my life I have had tracts and leaflets showered down upon me withletters from pious folks desiring my conversion. I have had innumerableletters telling me that the writers were praying for me. Well, I thinkthey would have done better to pray for some of my orthodox opponentswho are leading immoral lives; but, insofar as prayers show a certainamount of human interest, I am very willing that they should pray for methough they would have shown better taste if they had not informed meof their supplications. But don't mistake me; it is not in this way thatyou will ever prove the truth of your religion. You must show justiceto your opponents first. You must put a different spirit into your petword, 'Charity. ' I don't think you can do it. I think your religionfalse. I consider that it is rooted in selfishness and superstition. Being convinced of this when I was still young, I had to find some othersystem to take its place. That system I found in secularism. For thirtyyears I have lived as a secularist and have been perfectly contentnotwithstanding that my life has been a very hard one. As a secularist Inow die content. "

Mr. Fane-Smith shuddered. This was of course inexpressibly painful tohim. He could not see that what had disgusted Raeburn with religionhad been the distortion of Christ's teaching, and that in truth thesecularist creed embodied much of the truest and loftiest Christianity. 

Once more he reiterated his arguments, striving hard to show by wordsthe beauty of his religion. But Christianity can only be vindicatedby deeds, can only be truly shown forth in lives. The country, the"Christian Country, " as it was fond of styling itself, had had thirtyyears in which to show to Raeburn the loving kindness, the brotherhood, the lofty generosity which each professed follower of Christ ought toshow in his life. Now the time was over, and it was too late. 

The dying man bent forward, and a hard look came into his eyes, and asternness overspread his calm face. 

"What has Christianity done for me?" he asked. "Look at my life. See howI have been treated. "

And Mr. Fane-Smith was speechless. Conscience-stricken, he knew thatto this there was no reply that HE could honestly make, and a questiondawned upon his mind Was his own "Christianity" really that of Christ?

As evening drew on, Raeburn's life was slowly ebbing away. Very slowly, for to the last he fought for breath. All his nearest friends weregathered round him, and to the end he was clearly conscious and, as inlife, calmly philosophical. 

"I have been well 'friended' all my life, " he said once, looking roundat the faces by his bedside. 

They were all too broken-hearted to respond, and there were longsilences, broken only by the laboring breath and restless movements ofthe dying man. 

Toward midnight there was a low roll of distant thunder, and graduallythe storm drew nearer and nearer. Raeburn asked to be raised in bed thathe might watch the lightning which was unusually beautiful. It was astrange, weird scene the plainly furnished hotel room, sparsely lightedby candles, the sad group of watchers, the pale, beautiful face of theyoung girl bending over the pillow, and the strong, rugged Scotchmanwith his white hair and keen brown eyes, upon whose face death hadalready set his pale tokens. From the uncurtained window could be seenthe dark outline of the adjacent houses and the lights lower down thehill scattered here and there throughout the sleeping city. Upon allthis the vivid lightning played, and the distant thunder followed withits mighty crash, rolling and echoing away among the surrounding hills. 

"I am glad to have seen one more storm, " said Raeburn. 

But soon he grew weary, tired just with the slight exertion of lookingand listening. He sighed. To a strong, healthy man in the very prime oflife, this failing of the powers was hard to bear. Death was very near;he knew it well enough knew it by this slow, sure, painless sinking. 

He held Erica's hand more closely, and after that lay very still, onceor twice asking for more coverings over his feet. The night wore on. After a long silence, he looked up once more and said to Tom:

"I promised Hazeldine a sovereign toward the fund for--" he broke offwith a look of intense weariness, adding after an interval "He'll tellyou. See that it's paid. "

The storm had passed, and the golden-red dawn was just breaking whenonce more the silence was broken. 

"Come nearer, Eric, " he whispered "nearer!"

Then came a long pause. 

There was stillness that fearful stillness when the watchers begin tohush their very breath, that they may catch the last faint breathings. Poor Tom could stand it no longer; he just buried his face in his handsand sobbed. Perhaps Erica envied him. Violent grief would surely havebeen more endurable than this terrible sinking, this dread of notkeeping up to the end. Was she falling with him down those horriblesteps? Was she sinking with him beneath the cold, green waves? Oh, deathcruel death! Why had he not taken them together on that summer day?

Yet what was she saying? The death angel was but God's messenger, andher father could never, never be beyond the care of One who loved himinfinitely eternally. If He the Father were taking him from her, why, she would trust Him, though it should crush her whole world. 

"Nearer, Eric nearer. " How those last words rang in her ears as shewaited there with her hands in his. She knew they would be the last forhe was sinking away into a dreamily passive state just dying because tootired to live. 

"Nearer, nearer!" Was this agony indeed to heal the terrible divisionbetween them? Ah, mystery of evil, mystery of pain, mystery of death!Only the love of the Infinitely Loving can fathom you only the trust inthat Love give us a glimpse of your meaning. 

She felt a tightening of the fingers that clasped hers. He was stillconscious; he smiled just such a smile as he used to give her when, as alittle thing, she had fretted about his leaving home. 

She pressed her quivering lips to his, clung to him, and kissed himagain and again. There was a sigh. A long interval, and another sigh. After that, silence. 

CHAPTER XLI. Results Closely Following

 But that one man should die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this I call a tragedy. Carlyle

Not what I think, but what Thou art, makes sure. George MacDonald

A wave of strangely varied feeling swept through the country in the nextfour-and-twenty hours. 

From the Raeburnites came a burst of mingled wrath and grief, and abitter outcry against the religion which inevitably they thought tendedto produce such fanatics as Drosser. From the poor and oppressed came amurmur of blank despair; they had looked upon Raeburn as the delivererfrom so much that now weighed upon them, and were so perfectly consciousthat he understood their wants and difficulties in a way which othersfailed to do, that his death in the very prime of manhood simply stunnedthem. The liberal-minded felt a thrill of horror and indignation atthe thought that such deeds as this could take place in the nineteenthcentury; realizing, however, with a shudder that the rash act of theignorant fanatic was, in truth, no worse than the murder of hatred, theperpetual calumny and injustice which thousands of professing Christianshad meted out to Raeburn. In nothing had the un-Christlikeness of theage been more conspicuous than in the way in which Raeburn had all hislife been treated. 

The fashionable world felt a sort of uncomfortableness. The news reachedthem at their laziest time of year; they came in from shooting partiesto read the account in the papers; they discussed it in ball roomsand at evening parties at Brighton and Greyshot and the other autumnalresorts. "So he was dead! Well, really they were tired of hearing hisname! It was rather horrible, certainly, that his daughter should haveseen it all, but such infamous creatures as Raeburn had no businessto have daughters. No doubt she would stand it very well anything, youknow, for a little notoriety. Such people lived for notoriety. Of coursethe papers had put in a lot of twaddle that he had said on his death bed'always had tried to work entirely for the good of humanity, ' and thatsort of nonsense. This coffee ice is excellent. Let me get you another, "after which the subject would be dropped, and the speakers would returnto the ball room to improve upon Raeburn's life, which they presumed soseverely to criticize, by a trois temps enlivened by a broad flirtation. 

Here and there a gleam of good was effected inasmuch as some of theexcessively narrow began to see what narrowness leads to. Mr. Cuthbert, coming home from his annual Swiss tour, was leaning back sleepily ina first-class carriage at the Folkestone station when the voice of anewsboy recalled him to the every-day world with a slight shock. Therewas the usual list of papers; he was sleepy and thought he would not getone, but then came the loud voice, not a couple of yards from his ear, "Death of Mr. Raeburn! Death of Luke Raeburn this da-ay!"

Mr. Cuthbert had his head out of the window in a moment. 

"Here, paper!"

"These boys will call anything to sell their papers, " he remarked to hiscompanion; "I dare say it's nothing more than a rumor. "

"Precious good thing for the country if it was true, " replied the other, a young fellow of two-and-twenty who dawdled through life upon an incomeof 5, 000 pounds a year, and found it quite possible to combine theenjoyment of lax living with the due expression of very orthodoxsentiments. 

Mr. Cuthbert did not answer; his eye was traveling down a column of thenewspaper, and he felt a curious pricking of remorse as he read. He hadonce been rude to Erica Raeburn; he had all his life retailed dubiousstories about her father, knowing all the time that had any one believedsuch stories of himself upon such shaky evidence, he would have usedvery strong language about them. And now this fellow was dead! Curiouslyenough, Mr. Cuthbert, who had many times remarked that "Raeburn oughtto be shut up, or better still, hung, " was now the one to wish him aliveagain. Ugh! It was a horrible story. He quite shivered as he read theaccount of those days of torture. 

But in a room at the Park Hotel, Ashborough, two very different men werediscussing the same subject. Mr. Fane-Smith, with all his faults, hadalways been well-intentioned, and though frightful harm may be done bypeople with good intentions, they can never stand upon the same levelas those who wilfully and maliciously offend. All too plainly now he sawhow grievously he had failed with regard to Raeburn, and patiently didhe listen to Donovan's account of the really good work which Raeburn hadeffected in many instances. 

"Much as you may hate his views, you must at least see that, as some onehas well expressed it, 'It takes a high-souled man to move the masseseven to a cleaner sty. ' And I say that a man who worked as he worked, striving hard to teach the people to live for the general good, advocating temperance, promoting the spread of education, and somehowwinning those whom no one else had ever touched to take an intelligentinterest in politics, in science, and in the future of the race, thatsuch a man claims our respect however much we may disagree with him. "

"But that he should have died ignorant like this!" exclaimed Mr. Fane-Smith with a shudder. 

"'Tis in truth a tragedy, " said Donovan, sighing. "But I can wellbelieve that in another world the barriers which he allowed to distorthis vision will be removed; the very continuance of existence wouldsurely be sufficient. "

"You are a universalist?" said Mr. Fane-Smith, not in the condemnatorytone he would once have assumed, but humbly, anxiously, like one whogropes his way in a dark place. 

"Yes, " replied Donovan. "Believing in a universal Father, I am naturallythat. Upon any other system, what do you make of the good which existsin so many of those who deny all in which you believe? Where does thegood go to? I stood beside the death bed of that noble man this morning. At the very last I saw most touching proofs of his strong sense ofjustice, his honesty, his desire to promote the good of others, hisdevotion to his child. Can you believe that all that goodness, which ofnecessity comes from God, is to go down into what you call everlastingpunishment? Don't mistake me. Thank God there is a punishment which noone would wish to forego, such punishment, such drawing forth of thenative good, such careful help in the rooting out of what is evil as allgood fathers give to their children. "

They were interrupted by the opening of the door. Mr. Fane-Smith startedand almost trembled when, on turning round, he saw Erica. She was pale, but preternaturally calm looking, however, they all felt, as if in herfather's death, she had received her own death blow. 

"I thought I heard you, " she said in that strangely "gravened" voicewhich is sometimes one of the consequences of great and sudden trouble. "Has Donovan taken you into the next room? Will you come?"

For his life Mr. Fane-Smith could not have refused anything which sheasked him; there was something in her manner that made the tears rush tohis eyes though he was not, as a rule, easily moved. 

He followed her obediently though with a sort of reluctance; but when hewas once there he was glad. Ever since the previous day he had not beenable to rid himself of that stern, hard look with which Raeburn had soterribly rebuked him; it had persistently haunted him. There was nothingstern in this dead face. It was still and passionless, bearing thelook of repose which, spite of a harassed life, it had always borne inmoments of leisure. He hardly looked as though he were dead. Erica couldalmost have fancied that he was but resting after the toils of a hardday, having fallen asleep for a few minutes, as she had often seen himin his arm chair on a Sunday evening. 

Mr. Fane-Smith did not say a word, his eyes wandered from the calm faceto the still hands which clasped some sprigs of his native heather, theheather which Donovan's children had sent only the day before, but justin time to win one of his last smiles. Donovan and Erica spoke togetherin low tones, but something in the sound of that "gravened" voicearrested Mr. Fane-Smith's attention. He had not heard what had passedbefore, and there was nothing special in the words that fell now uponhis ear; it was rather that his own soul was in a state of receptivity, and so through the first channel that came to hand he was able toreceive a new truth. 

"I am only his child; God is his Father. "

And there, by the lifeless body of Luke Raeburn, one, who during hislife had judged him with the very hardest judgment, learned for thefirst time what Fatherhood means. 

As long as there was anything to be done, Erica struggled on althoughthe days were terribly hard and were rendered infinitely harder bythe sort of publicity which attended them. There was the necessity ofappearing at the inquest; there was the necessity of reading everyword that was written about her father. She could not help reading thepapers, could not keep her hands off them, though even now most cruelthings were said. There was the necessity of attending the great publicfuneral in London, of seeing the thousands of grief-stricken people, oflistening to the professor's words so broken with sobs that they couldhardly be heard. A week later there was the necessity of going down tothe Ashborough assizes to appear as a witness in the trial of Drosser. 

"What do you feel toward this man?" some one asked her once. 

"A great pity, " she replied. "It is not nearly so hard for me to forgivethis poor fanatic as to forgive those who have taught him his darkcreed, or to forgive those who, while calling themselves Christians, have hated my father with the hatred that is quite as bad as murder. "

But when the trial was over and there was no longer any necessity todo anything, Erica suddenly broke down. She had never till now yieldedthough not a night had passed in which she had not been haunted by thefrightful recollections of that Sunday evening and the days following. But the evening she returned from Ashborough she could hold out nolonger. 

Very quietly she bore that sad return to the empty house, going into allthe familiar rooms and showing no sign of grief, because those she lovedwere with her, watching her with the anxious solicitude which peoplecannot help showing at such a time though it is usually more of a trialthan a comfort. Erica longed inexpressibly to be alone, and when atlength, deceived by her unnatural calm, they were persuaded to leaveher, she crept down to the study and shut herself in, and no longertried to resist the inevitable, the mere surroundings were quitesufficient to open the flood gates of her grief; the books which herfather had loved, the table, the empty chair, the curious cactus whichthey had brought back from Italy, and in the growth of which they hadtaken such an interest! the desk at which her father had toiled forso many long years. She hid her face from the light and broke into apassionate fit of weeping. Then exhausted, nerveless, powerless, shecould no longer cope with that anguish of remembrance which was hernightly torment. Once more there rose before her that horrible scene inthe Ashborough market place; once more she could see the glare of light, the huge crowd, the sudden treacherous movement, the fall; once more sheheard the crash, the hushed murmur; once more felt the wild struggle toget through that pushing, jostling throng that she might somehow reachhim. That nightmare recollection only gave place to a yet more painfulone, to the memory of days of such agony that to recall them was almostto risk her reason. She had struggled bravely not to dwell upon thesethings, but this night her strength was gone, she could do nothing, andBrian, coming at last to seek her, found that the climax he had longforeseen had come. 

"Oh, " she sobbed, "if you love me, Brian, be willing to let me go! Don'tpray for me to live! Promise that you will not!"

A shade came over Brian's face. Was the dead father still to absorb allher love? Must he even now resign all to him? Lose Erica at last afterthese long years of waiting! There was a look of agony in his eyes, buthe answered quietly and firmly:

"I will pray only that God's will may be done, darling. "

A sort of relief was apparent in Erica's flushed, tear-stained face asthough he had given her leave to be ill. 

After that, for long, weary weeks, she lay at the very gate of death, and those who watched by her had not the heart to wish her back to lifeagain. 

CHAPTER XLII. A New Year's Dawn

 And the murky planets, I perceived, were but cradles for the infant spirits of the universe of light. .. . And in sight of this immeasurability of life no sadness could endure. .. . And I exclaimed, Oh! How beautiful is death, seeing that we die in a world of life and of creation without end! And I blessed God for my life upon earth, but much more for the life in those unseen depths of the universe which are comprised of all but the Supreme Reality, and where no earthly life or perishable hope can enter. Richter

For many weeks Erica had scarcely a conscious interval. Now and then shehad been dimly aware that Brian was in the room, or that Aunt Jean, andMrs. MacNaughton, and her many secularist friends were nursing her; butall had been vague, dream-like, seen through the distorting fever-mist. On night, however, she woke after a sleep of many hours to see thingsonce more as they really were. There was her little room with itsgreen-paneled walls, and its familiar pictures, and familiar books. There was Aunt Jean sitting beside the fire, turning over the pages ofan "Idol-Breaker, " while all the air seemed to be ringing and echoingwith the sound of church bells. 

"Auntie, " she said, "what day is it?"

Aunt Jean came at once to her bedside. 

"It is New Year's day, " she said; "it struck twelve about five minutesago, dear. "

Erica made no comment though the words brought back to her the sense ofher desolation brought back to her, too, the remembrance of another NewYear's day long ago when she had stood beside her father on the deck ofthe steamer, and the bells of Calais had gayly pealed in spite of hergrief. She took the food her aunt brought her, and promised to go tosleep once more. 

"I shall have to wake up again in this misery!" she thought to herself. "Oh, if one could only sleep right on!"

But God sometimes saves us from what we have most dreaded; and when atsunrise Erica woke once more, before any recollection returned to hermind, she became conscious of One who said to her, "Lo, I am with youalways! Behold, I make all things new!"

Streaks of golden light were stealing in between the window curtains. She lay quite still, able to face life once more in the strength of thatInner Presence; able to endure the well-known sights and sounds becauseshe could once more realize that there was One who made even "the wrathof man to praise" Him; who, out of blackest evil and cruelest pain, could at length bring good. Presently, passing from the restfulness ofthat conscious communion, she remembered a strange dream she had hadthat night. 

She had dreamed that she was sitting with Donovan in the little churchyard at Oakdene; in her hand she held a Greek Testament, but upon thepage had only been able to see one sentence. It ran thus, "Until thetimes of the Restitution of all things. " Donovan had insisted thatthe word should rightly be "restoration. " She had clung to the oldrendering. While they discussed the distinction between the words, a beautiful girl had all at once stood before them. Erica knew in aninstant who it must be by the light which shone in her companion's face. 

"You are quite right, " she had said, turning her beautiful eyes uponhim. "It is not the mere giving back of things that were, it is theperfecting of that which was here only in ideal; it is the carrying outof what might have been. All the time there has been progress, all thetime growth, and so restoration is better, wider, grander than anythingwe could dream of here!"

And, as she left them, there had come to both a sort of vision of theInfinite, in sight of which the whole of earthly existence was but asan hour, and the sum of human suffering but as the pin prick to a strongman, and yet both human suffering and human existence were infinitelyworth while. And over them stole a wonderful peace as they realizedthe greatness of God's universe, and that in it was no wasted thing, no wasted pain, but order where there seemed confusion, and a soul ofgoodness where there seemed evil. 

And, after all, what was this dream compared with the reality which sheknew to exist? Well, it was perhaps a little fragment, a dim shadow, aseeing through the glass darkly; but mostly it was a comfort because shewas all the time conscious that there was an infinitely Better which ithas not entered into the heart of man to conceive. 

Brian came in for his morning visit with a face so worn and anxious thatit made her smile. 

"Oh!" she said, looking up at him with quiet, shining eyes, "how I havebeen troubling you all these weeks! But you are not to be troubled anymore, darling. I am going to get better. "

And with a sort of grateful, loving tenderness, she drew his face downto hers and kissed him. 

"Where is Tom?" she asked presently, beginning for the first time totake an interest in the world again. 

"Tom has gone to Oakdene for a day or two, " said Brian. "He is going tobe Donovan's private secretary. "

"How glad I am!" she said. "Dear old Tom, he does so deserve to behappy!"

"They want you to go there as soon as you are well enough to be moved, "said Brian. 

"I should like that, " she said with a touch of her old eagerness ofmanner. "I want to get well quickly; there is so much work for us to doyou know. Oh, Brian! I feel that there is work which HE would wish me todo, and I'm so glad, so glad to be left to do it!"

Brian thought of the enormous impetus given to the cause of secularismby Raeburn's martyrdom. The momentary triumph of bigotry and intolerancehad, as in all other ages, been followed by this inevitable consequencea dead loss to the persecuting side. Would people at length learn thelesson? Would the reign of justice at length dawn? Would the majorityat length believe that the All Father needs not to be supported bypersecuting laws and unjust restrictions?

Yet it was not these thoughts which brought the tears to his eyes it wasthe rapture caused by Erica's words. 

"My darling will live, and is glad to live!" he thought. "Who could bearwitness to the truth so well? Who be so sweet a reconciler?"

"Why, Brian! Brian!" exclaimed Erica as the great drops fell on her handlying clasped in his. 

And there was that in tone and look and touch which made Brian more thancontent.