ic of dogma as Mike's of the
grace of Athens.

As he ascended the stairs, having bidden his friends good-night, John
thought of the unfortunate nun whom that man had persuaded to leave
her convent, and he wondered if he were justified in living in such
close communion of thought with those whose lives were set in all
opposition to the principles on which he had staked his life's value.
He was thinking and writing the same thoughts as Fletcher. They were
swimming in the same waters; they were living the same life.

Disturbed in mind he walked across the room, his spectacles
glimmering on his high nose, his dressing-gown floating. The
manuscript of the poems caught his eyes, and he turned over the
sheets, his hand trembling violently. And if they were antagonistic
to the spirit of his teaching, if not to the doctrine that the Church
in her eternal wisdom deemed healthful and wise, and conducive to the
best attainable morality and heaven? What a fearful responsibility
he was taking upon himself! He had learned in bitter experience that
he must seek salvation rather in elimination than in acceptance of
responsibilities. But his poems were all he deemed best in the world.
For a moment John stood face to face with, and he looked into the
eyes of, the Church. The dome of St. Peter's, a solitary pope,
cardinals, bishops, and priests. Oh! wonderful symbolization of man's
lust of eternal life!

Must he renounce all his beliefs? The wish so dear to him that the
unspeakable spectacle of life might cease for ever; must he give
thanks for existence because it gave him a small chance of gaining
heaven? Then it were well to bring others into the world.... True it
is that the Church does not advance into such sloughs of optimism,
but how different is her teaching from that of the early fathers, and
how different is such dull optimism from the severe spirit of early
Christianity.

Whither lay his duty? Must he burn the poems? Far better that they
should burn and he should save his soul from burning. A sudden vision
of hell, a realistic mediaeval hell full of black devils and ovens
came upon him, and he saw himself thrust into flame. It seemed to him
certain that his soul was lost--so certain, that the source of prayer
died within him and he fell prostrate. He cursed, with curses that
seared his soul as he uttered them, Harding, that cynical atheist,
who had striven to undermine his faith, and he shrank from thought of
Fletcher, tha