story of creation contained in the Book of Genesis is on no account
to be received; that the begetting of children is a most deplorable
oversight; that to eat flesh is wholly unworthy of a civilised being;
that if every man and woman performed their quota of the world's labour
it would be necessary to work for one hour and thirty-seven minutes
daily, no jot longer, and that the author, in each case, is the one
person capable of restoring dignity to a down-trodden race and happiness
to a blasted universe. Alas, alas! On this food had Richard Mutimer
pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only.
English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew
by name; of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this
period and that through distorting media, and congratulating himself on
his clear vision because he saw men as trees walking; the bent of
his mind would have led him to natural science, but opportunities of
instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors of his prejudice
taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as _for_ or _against_
something.

A library of pathetic significance, the individual alone considered.
Viewed as representative, not without alarming suggestiveness to those
who can any longer trouble themselves about the world's future. One
dreams of the age when free thought--in the popular sense--will have
become universal, when art shall have lost its meaning, worship its
holiness, when the Bible will only exist in 'comic' editions, and
Shakespeare be down-cried by 'most sweet voices as a mountebank of
reactionary tendencies.

Richard was to lecture on the ensuing Sunday at one of the branch
meeting-places of his society; he engaged himself this morning in
collecting certain data of a statistical kind. He was still at his work
when the sound of the postman's knock began to be heard in the square,
coming from house to house, drawing nearer at each repetition. Richard
paid no heed to it; he expected no letter. Yet it seemed there was
one for some member of the family; the letter-carrier's regular tread
ascended the five steps to the door, and then two small thunderclaps
echoed through the house. There was no letter-box; Richard went to
answer the knock. An envelope addressed to himself in a small, formal
hand.

His thoughts still busy with other things, he opened the letter
mechanically as he re-entered the room. He had never in his life been
calm