tly in the same strange altered voice. 'My
father--when I saw that light on his face before he died, when I heard
him cry, "Master, _I come!_" was dying--deceived--deluded. Perhaps
even,' and she trembled, 'you think it ends here--our life--our love?'

It was agony to him to see her driving herself through this piteous
catechism. The lantern of memory flashed a moment on to the immortal
picture of Faust and Margaret. Was it not only that winter they had read
the scene together?

Forcibly he possessed himself once more of those closely locked hands,
pressing their coldness on his own burning eyes and forehead in hopeless
silence.

'_Do_ you, Robert?' she repeated insistently.

'I know nothing,' he said, his eyes still hidden. 'I know nothing! But I
trust God with all that is dearest to me, with our love, with the soul
that is His breath, His work in us!'

The pressure of her despair seemed to be wringing his own faith out of
him, forcing into definiteness things and thoughts that had been lying
in an accepted, even a welcomed, obscurity.

She tried again to draw her hands away, but he would not let them go.
'And the end of it all, Robert?' she said--'the end of it?'

Never did he forget the note of that question, the desolation of it, the
indefinable change of accent. It drove him into a harsh abruptness of
reply.

'The end of it--so far--must be, if I remain an honest man, that I must
give up my living, that I must cease to be a minister of the Church of
England. What the course of our life after that shall be is in your
hands--absolutely.'

She caught her breath painfully. His heart was breaking for her, and yet
there was something in her manner now which kept down caresses and
repressed all words.

Suddenly, however, as he sat there mutely watching her, he found her at
his knees, her dear arms around him, her face against his breast.

'Robert, my husband, my darling, it _cannot_ be! It is a madness--a
delusion. God is trying you, and me! You cannot be planning so to desert
Him, so to deny Christ--you cannot, my husband. Come away with me, away
from books and work, into some quiet place where He can make Himself
heard. You are overdone, overdriven. Do nothing now--say nothing--except
to me. Be patient a little, and He will give you back Himself! What can
books and arguments matter to you or me? Have we not _known_ and _felt_
Him as He is--have we not, Robert? Come!'

She pushed herself backwards, smiling