ke
it, than poor Carol could ever be. I don't know her history, but she is
evidently a lady born and educated. She is quite as good-looking as
Carol, only an entirely different type, taller, darker, and with deep,
mysterious brown eyes which evidently have a soul behind them. At any
rate, I'm quite convinced that she would make a much better social
missionary's wife than poor Carol would.

"She, I sadly fear, is 'a daughter of delight,' as the French call them,
pure and simple. She told me point blank that she preferred her present
mode of life to respectability, and that she considered that taking even
my money or Vane's, when she had no real claim upon us, was more
degrading and would hurt her self-respect a great deal more than doing
what she is doing. In other respects she's as good a girl as ever
walked, and as honest as the daylight, but I'm afraid there is no hope
of social regeneration for her."

"Hope was once found for one a thousand times worse than she!" said
Ernshaw quietly. "But as I have seen neither of them yet, no harm can be
done by my making the acquaintance of Miss Murray to begin with."

"Very well," said Sir Arthur, not at all sorry to change the subject.
"And now, talking about social missionaries, Vane, have you quite made
up your mind to carry out this scheme of yours, this crusade against
money-making and the pomps and vanities of Society? Do you really mean
to show that your own father has been living in sin all these years;
that he is not, in fact, a Christian at all, because it is impossible
for anyone to be decently well off and a Christian at the same time? A
nice sort of thing that, Ernshaw, isn't it?"

"If Vane honestly believes, as he does, that his is the only true
definition of a Christian, it is not only his right but his duty to
preach it," was the young priest's reply.

"It is my belief," said Vane quietly, "and, God helping me, I will do
what I believe to be my duty."

The party at the Abbey broke up a few days after this, and in another
week or so Enid and her husband were in the full swing of the great
merry-go-round which is called the London season. She was unquestionably
the most beautiful of the brides of the year, and she was the undisputed
belle of the Drawing Room at which she was presented.

Garthorne was, of course, very proud of her, and received plenty of that
second-hand sort of admiration which is accorded alike to the owner of a
distinguished race-horse, a