said doubtfully, "I only hope he may not feel called upon
to 'deal with you.'"

They laughed, but the young man added, "After all, when you come to
think of it, Helen, there is no bigotry or narrowness which does not
spring from a truth, and nothing is truer than that sin is punished
eternally. It is only their way of making God responsible for it,--not
ourselves,--and arranging the details of fire and brimstone, which is so
monstrous. Somebody says that when the Calvinists decided on sulphur they
did not know the properties of caustic potash. But there are stages of
truth; there's no use knocking a man down because he is only on the first
step of the ladder, which you have climbed into light. I think belief in
eternal damnation is a phase in spiritual development."

"But you don't really object to my protest?" she said. "Come, Giff, the
truth must be strong enough to be expressed."

"I don't object to the protest," he answered slowly, "but I hope the
manner of it will not make things difficult for Mr. Ward."

Helen laughed, in spite of her depression. "Why, Gifford," she said, "it
is not like you to be so apprehensive, and over so small a matter, too.
Mr. Dean has probably forgotten everything I said, and, except that I
mean to tell him, John would never hear a word about it."

CHAPTER XIII.

The winter was passing very quietly in Ashurst; the only really great
excitement was Helen's letter about the fire and Colonel Drayton's attack
of gout.

Life went on as it had as far back as any one cared to remember, with the
small round of church festivals and little teas, and the Saturday evening
whist parties at the rectory. But under monotonous calm may lurk very
wearing anxiety, and this was the case in Ashurst.

Mr. Denner endeavored, with but indifferent success, to conceal the
indecision which was still preying upon his mind. For the suggestion
gained from Jephtha had proved useless. He had, indeed, tried to act upon
it. A day or two after the thought had come to him which so interrupted
family prayers, Mr. Denner sallied forth to learn his fate. It was
surprising how particular he was about his linen that morning,--for he
went in the morning,--and he arrayed himself in his best clothes; he saw
no impropriety, considering the importance of the occasion, in putting on
his evening coat. He even wore his new hat, a thing he had not done more
than half a dozen times--at a funeral perhaps, or a fair--since he