an mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it
is a long history--it may drive me to utter things that you will shrink
from."

"I _will_ hear it." There was, in that soft, firm voice an influence
which Harold perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is
stronger than darkness.

Mr. Gwynne began, speaking quietly, even humbly. "When I was a youth
studying for the Church, doubts came upon my mind, as they will upon
most young minds whose strivings after truth are hedged in by a thorny
rampart of old worn-out forms. Then there came a sudden crisis in my
life; I must either enter on a ministry in whose creed I only half
believed, or let my mother--my noble, self-denying mother--starve. You
know her, Miss Rothesay, though you know not half that she is, and ever
was to me. But you do know what it is to have a beloved mother."

"Yes."

Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him
brother.

"Well, after a time of great inward conflict, I decided--for her sake.
Though little more than a boy in years, struggling in a chaos of mingled
doubt and faith, I bound myself to believe whatever the Church taught,
and to lead souls to heaven in the Church's own road. These very
bonds, this vow so blindly to be fulfilled, made me, in after years, an
infidel."

He paused to look at her.

"I am listening, speak on," said Olive Rothesay.

"As you say truly, I am one whose natural bent of mind is less to faith
than to knowledge. Above all, I am one who hates all falsehood, all
hypocritical show. Perchance in the desert I might have learned to serve
God. Face to face with Him I might have worshiped His revealings. But
when between me and the one great Truth came a thousand petty veils of
cunning forms and blindly taught precedents; when among my brethren I
saw wicked men preaching virtue--men without brains enough to acquire
a mere worldly profession, such as law or physic, set to expound the
mighty mysteries of religion--then I said to myself, 'The whole system
is a lie!' So I cast it from me, and my soul stood forth in its naked
strength before the Creator of all."

"But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?"

"Because," and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, "just then there was
upon me a madness which all men have in youth--love. For that I became a
liar in the face of Heaven, of men, and of my own soul."

"It was a great sin."

"I know it; and, being such, it