a low voice.

They were standing in the midst of the crowd that thronged around the
pavilion. An urchin caught hold of the rector's coat.

"Here he is! Say, Mr. Hodder, ain't you going to have any sody?"

"Certainly we are," he replied, returning Alison's faint smile.... In
the confusion that followed he caught a glimpse of her talking to Mr.
Bentley; and later, after he had taken her hand, his eyes followed her
figure wending its way in the evening light through the groups toward
Park Street, and he saw above the tree-tops the red tiled roof of the
great house in which she was living, alone.

CHAPTER XV. THE CRUCIBLE

I

For better or worse John Hodder had flung his treasured beliefs into the
crucible, and one by one he watched them crumble and consume away. None
but his own soul knew what it cost him to make the test; and some times,
in the early stages of it, he would cast down his book under the lamp
and walk for hours in the night. Curiosity, and the despair of one who
is lost impelled him to persist.

It had been said of him that he had a talent for the law, and he now
discovered that his mind, once freed, weighed the evidence with a
pitiless logic, paid its own tribute--despite the anguish of the
heart--to the pioneers of truth whose trail it followed into the
Unknown, who had held no Mystery more sacred than Truth itself, who had
dared to venture into the nothingness between the whirling worlds.

He considered them, those whirling worlds, at night. Once they had
been the candles of Jehovah, to light the path of his chosen nation,
to herald the birth of his Son. And now? How many billions of blind,
struggling creatures clung to them? Where now was this pin-point
of humanity, in the midst of an appalling spectacle of a grinding,
remorseless nature?

And that obscure Event on which he had staked his hopes? Was He, as John
had written, the First Born of the Universe, the Word Incarnate of a
system that defied time and space, the Logos of an outworn philosophy?
Was that Universe conscious, as Berkeley had declared, or the blind
monster of substance alone, or energy, as some modern scientists
brutally and triumphantly maintained? Where was the Spirit that breathed
in it of hope?

Such were some of the questions that thronged for solution. What was
mind, what spirit? an attenuated vapour of the all-pervading substance?

He could not permit himself to dwell on these thoughts--madness lay
that way.