ts, where
was nothing ugly, hard, merciless, and the gentle face of the Saviour
radiated everlasting love! The scent of the mayflowers, borne down by
the sun shine, drenched his senses; he closed his eyes, and, at once,
as if resenting that momentary escape, his mind resumed debate with
startling intensity. This matter went to the very well-springs, had
a terrible and secret significance. If to act as conscience bade him
rendered him unfit to keep his parish, all was built on sand, had no
deep reality, was but rooted in convention. Charity, and the forgiveness
of sins honestly atoned for--what became of them? Either he was wrong to
have espoused straightforward confession and atonement for her, or they
were wrong in chasing him from that espousal. There could be no making
those extremes to meet. But if he were wrong, having done the hardest
thing already--where could he turn? His Church stood bankrupt of ideals.
He felt as if pushed over the edge of the world, with feet on space,
and head in some blinding cloud. 'I cannot have been wrong,' he thought;
'any other course was so much easier. I sacrificed my pride, and my poor
girl's pride; I would have loved to let her run away. If for this we are
to be stoned and cast forth, what living force is there in the religion
I have loved; what does it all come to? Have I served a sham? I cannot
and will not believe it. Something is wrong with me, something is
wrong--but where--what?' He rolled over, lay on his face, and prayed. He
prayed for guidance and deliverance from the gusts of anger which kept
sweeping over him; even more for relief from the feeling of personal
outrage, and the unfairness of this thing. He had striven to be loyal to
what he thought the right, had sacrificed all his sensitiveness, all his
secret fastidious pride in his child and himself. For that he was to
be thrown out! Whether through prayer, or in the scent and feel of the
clover, he found presently a certain rest. Away in the distance he could
see the spire of Harrow Church.

The Church! No! She was not, could not be, at fault. The fault was in
himself. 'I am unpractical,' he thought. 'It is so, I know. Agnes used
to say so, Bob and Thirza think so. They all think me unpractical and
dreamy. Is it a sin--I wonder?' There were lambs in the next field; he
watched their gambollings and his heart relaxed; brushing the clover
dust off his black clothes, he began to retrace his steps. The boys were
playing cri