ngton in which Father
Molyneux was assistant parish priest. On the whole she liked this last
much the best. Indeed, she was so much attracted by his sermons that she
went to call upon him late one afternoon.

The visitor was shown into a rather bare parlour, and Father Molyneux
soon came in. He was a good deal interested in seeing her there. He had
never been more snubbed in his life than by this lady on their first
meeting, and he had been much surprised at seeing her in the church soon
afterwards. She was plainly dressed, though at an expense he would never
have imagined to be possible, and she appeared a little softer than when
he had seen her last. She looked at him rather hard, not with the look
that puzzled Rose Bright; it was a look of sympathy and of inquiry.

"I have had curious experiences since we met," she said, "and I want to
understand them better. Have you--has anybody been praying for me?"

"I have said Mass for you twice since poor Moloney died," he said.

"I thought there was some sort of influence," she murmured. "That night
I was tired and excited and worried, and foolishly prejudiced. Somehow
the prayers you read for Pat Moloney, the whole attitude of your Church
in those prayers, caught my breath. I imagine it was something like the
effect of a revivalist preacher on a Welsh miner." She paused. Father
Molyneux was full of interest, and did not conceal it.

"I can't tell," he said. "Of course, it may have been----"

"Nerves," interrupted Molly so decidedly that he laughed; it was not in
the least what he had meant to say.

"But," she went on, with an air of impartial diagnosis, "it has lasted.
I have been very happy. I understand now what is meant by religion. I
understand what you felt about that man's soul. I understand, when you
are preaching, that intense sense of worth-whileness. I understand the
religious sense, the religious attitude. It makes everything worth
while because of love. It does not explain all the puzzles. It does not
answer questions, it swallows them up alive. It makes everything so big,
and at the same time so small, because there are infinite things too.
Then it insists on reality; I see now it must insist on dogma for fear
of unreality. Renan was quite wrong in that great sentence of his: 'Il
ne faut rien dire de limitee en face de l'infini.' The infinite is a fog
to us if there are no outlines in our conception of it. Don't you think
so?"

There was a light in her f