" she asked--not
speaking to him. "It seems so simple."

"It is simple. The difficult thing is to put it into practice--the most
difficult thing in the world. Both courage and faith are required,
faith that is content to trust as to the nature of the reward. It is the
wisdom of foolishness. Have you the courage?"

She pressed her hands together.

"Alone--perhaps I should have. I don't know. But my husband! I was able
to influence him to his destruction, and now I am powerless. Darkness
has closed around me. He would not--he will not listen to me."

"You have tried?"

"I have attempted to talk to him, but the whole of my life contradicts
my words. He cannot see me except as, the woman who drove him into
making money. Sometimes I think he hates me."

Hodder recalled, as his eyes rested on her compassionately, the
sufferings of that other woman in Dalton Street.

"Would you have me desert him--after all these years?" she whispered. "I
often think he would be happier, even now."

"I would have you do nothing save that which God himself will reveal to
you. Go home, go into the church and pray--pray for knowledge. I think
you will find that you are held responsible for your husband. Pray that
that which you have broken, you may mend again."

"Do you think there is a chance?"

Hodder made a gesture.

"God alone can judge as to the extent of his punishments."

She got to her feet, wearily.

"I feel no hope--I feel no courage, but--I will try. I see what you
mean--that my punishment is my powerlessness."

He bent his head.

"You are so strong--perhaps you can help me."

"I shall always be ready," he replied.

He escorted her down the steps to the dark blue brougham with
upstanding, chestnut horses which was waiting at the curb. But Mrs.
Constable turned to the footman, who held open the door.

"You may stay here awhile," she said to him, and gave Hodder her
hand....

She went into the church....

II

Asa Waring and his son-in-law, Phil Goodrich, had been to see Hodder on
the subject of the approaching vestry meeting, and both had gone away
not a little astonished and impressed by the calmness with which the
rector looked forward to the conflict. Others of his parishioners, some
of whom were more discreet in their expressions of sympathy, were no
less surprised by his attitude; and even his theological adversaries,
such as Gordon Atterbury, paid him a reluctant tribute. Thanks, perhaps,
to the new