e looked back over all her strenuous youth
she hated it. What was wrong with her? Her own word to Anthony Craven
returned upon her, mocked her--made now a scourge for her own pride, not
a mere, measure of blame for others. Aldous Raeburn, her father and
mother, her poor--one and all rose against her--plucked at
her--reproached her. "Aye! what, indeed, are wealth and poverty?" cried
a voice, which was the voice of them all; "what are opinions--what is
influence, beauty, cleverness?--what is anything worth but
_character_--but _soul?_"

And character--soul--can only be got by self-surrender; and
self-surrender comes not of knowledge but of love.

A number of thoughts and phrases, hitherto of little meaning to her,
floated into her mind--sank and pressed there. That strange word "grace"
for instance!

A year ago it would not have smitten or troubled her. After her first
inevitable reaction against the evangelical training of her school
years, the rebellious cleverness of youth had easily decided that
religion was played out, that Socialism and Science were enough for
mankind.

But nobody could live in hospital--nobody could go among the
poor--nobody could share the thoughts and hopes of people like Edward
Hallin and his sister, without understanding that it is still here in
the world--this "grace" that "sustaineth"--however variously
interpreted, still living and working, as it worked of old, among the
little Galilean towns, in Jerusalem, in Corinth. To Edward Hallin it did
not mean the same, perhaps, as it meant to the hard-worked clergymen she
knew, or to Mrs. Jervis. But to all it meant the motive power of
life--something subduing, transforming, delivering--something that
to-night she envied with a passion and a yearning that amazed herself.

How many things she craved, as an eager child craves them! First some
moral change, she knew not what--then Aldous Raeburn's pardon and
friendship--then and above all, the power to lose herself--the power to
_love_.

Dangerous significant moment in a woman's life--moment at once of
despair and of illusion!

CHAPTER VIII.

Wharton was sitting in a secluded corner of the library of the House of
Commons. He had a number of loose sheets of paper on a chair beside him,
and others in his hand and on his knee. It was Friday afternoon;
questions were going on in the House; and he was running rapidly for the
last time through the notes of his speech, pencilling here and t