g, through all the long story of
intellectual change.

At the mention of Mr. Grey Catherine grew restless; she sat up suddenly,
with a cry of bitterness.

'Robert, why did you go away from me? It was cruel. I should have known
first. He had no right--no right!'

She clasped her hands round her knees, her beautiful mouth set and
stern. The moon had been sailing westward all this time, and as
Catherine bent forward the yellow light caught her face, and brought out
the haggard change in it. He held out his hands to her with a low groan,
helpless against her reproach, her jealousy. He dared not speak of what
Mr. Grey had done for him, of the tenderness of his counsel towards her
specially. He felt that everything he could say would but torture the
wounded heart still more.

But she did not notice the outstretched hands. She covered her face in
silence a moment, as though trying to see her way more clearly through
the mazes of disaster; and he waited. At last she looked up.

'I cannot follow all you have been saying,' she said, almost harshly. 'I
know so little of books, I cannot give them the place you do. You say
you have convinced yourself the Gospels are like other books, full of
mistakes, and credulous, like the people of the time; and therefore you
can't take what they say as you used to take it. But what does it all
quite mean? Oh, I am not clever--I cannot see my way clear from thing to
thing as you do. If there are mistakes, does it matter so--so--terribly
to you?' and she faltered. 'Do you think _nothing_ is true because
something may be false? Did not--did not--Jesus still live, and die, and
rise again?--_can_ you doubt--_do_ you doubt--that He rose--that He is
God--that He is in heaven--that we shall see Him?'

She threw an intensity into every word, which made the short breathless
questions thrill through him, through the nature saturated and steeped
as hers was in Christian association, with a bitter accusing force. But
he did not flinch from them.

'I can believe no longer in an Incarnation and Resurrection,' he said
slowly, but with a resolute plainness. 'Christ is risen in our hearts,
in the Christian life of charity. Miracle is a natural product of human
feeling and imagination; and God was in Jesus--pre-eminently, as He is
in all great souls, but not otherwise--not otherwise in kind than He is
in me or you.'

His voice dropped to a whisper. She grew paler and paler.

'So to you,' she said presen