ommon ground of failure--failure
to understand the Christ, and to meet the needs of our fellow-men with
our elaborate systems of theology."

"I heard another priest, years ago, make a similar confession," said
Hitt reflectively. "I would he were here to-night!"

"He is here, in spirit," replied Father Waite; "for the same spirit of
eager inquiry and humble desire for truth that animates us no doubt
moved him. I have reason to think so," he added, looking at Carmen.
"For this girl's spiritual development I believe to be very largely
his work."

Hitt glanced at Carmen inquiringly. He knew but little as yet of her
past association with the priest Jose.

"You and I, Mr. Hitt, represented the greatest systems of so-called
Christian belief," pursued Father Waite. "Madam Beaubien, on the other
hand, has represented the world that waits, as yet vainly, for
redemption. We have not been able to afford it her. Yet--pardon my
frankness in thus referring to you, Madam. It is only to benefit us
all--that the means of redemption _have_ been brought to her, we must
now admit."

All turned and looked at Carmen. She started to speak, but Father
Waite raised a detaining hand. "Let me proceed," he said. "Miss Wall
represents the weariness of spirit and unrest abroad in the world
to-day, the spirit that finds life not worth the while; and Mr.
Haynerd voices the cynical disbelief, the agnosticism, of that great
class who can not accept the childish tenets of our dogmatic systems
of theology, yet who have nothing but the philosophy of stoicism or
epicureanism to offer in substitute."

Haynerd bowed and smiled. "You have me correctly classified," he said.
"I'm a Yankee, and from Missouri."

"And now, having placed us," said the Beaubien, "how will you classify
Carmen?"

Father Waite looked at the girl reverently. "Hers is the leaven," he
replied gently, "which has leavened the whole lump.

"My good friends," he went on earnestly, "like all priests and
preachers, I have been but a helpless spectator of humanity's
troubles. I have longed and prayed to know how to do the works which
Jesus is said to have done; yet, at the sick-bed or the couch of
death, what could I do--I, to whom the apostolic virtue is supposed to
have descended in the long line of succession? I could anoint with
holy oil. I could make signs, and pray. I could give promises of
remitted sins--though I knew I spoke not truth. I could comfort by
voicing the insipid vi