ve succeeded in converting
you to my views, and that our ideas upon religion are now practically
identical. Is not that so?"

Elisabeth thought for a moment. "Yes," she answered slowly; "you have
taught me that Christianity, like all the other old religions, has had
its day; and that the world is now ready for a new dispensation."

"Exactly; and for a dispensation which shall unite the pure ethics of
the Christian to the joyous vitality of the Greek, eliminating alike the
melancholy of the one and the sensualism of the other. You agree with me
in this, do you not?"

"You know that I do."

"I am glad, because--as I said before--I could not bear to marry any
woman who did not see eye to eye with me on these vital matters. I love
you very dearly, Elisabeth, and it would be a great grief to me if any
question of opinion or conviction came between us; yet I do not believe
that two people could possibly be happy together--however much they
might love each other--if they were not one with each other on subjects
such as these."

Elisabeth was silent; she was too much excited to speak. Her heart was
thumping like the great hammer at the Osierfield, and she was trembling
all over. So she held her peace as they drove up the principal street of
Silverhampton and across the King's Square to the lych-gate of St.
Peter's Church; but Alan, looking into the tell-tale face he knew so
well, was quite content.

Yet as she sat beside Alan in St. Peter's Church that summer evening,
and thought upon what she had just done, a great sadness filled
Elisabeth's soul. The sun shone brightly through the western window,
and wrote mystic messages upon the gray stone walls; but the lights of
the east window shone pale and cold in the distant apse, where the
Figure of the Crucified gleamed white upon a foundation of emerald. And
as she looked at the Figure, which the world has wept over and
worshipped for nineteen centuries, she realized that this was the Symbol
of all that she was giving up and leaving behind her--the Sign of that
religion of love and sorrow which men call Christianity. She felt that
wisdom must be justified of her children, and not least of her,
Elisabeth Farringdon; nevertheless, she mourned for the myth which had
once made life seem fair, and death even fairer. Although she had
outgrown her belief in it, its beauty had still power to touch her
heart, if not to convince her intellect; and she sighed as she recalled
all that