in capitals, the one word: "Hell." It was underlined, and
around it he had drawn sundry fantastic flourishes and shadings, but
the rest of the sheet was blank.

For more than an hour the old man had sat there, his blue, near-sighted
eyes wandering about the room. A self-appointed committee from his
congregation had visited him and requested him to preach a sermon on
the future abode of the wicked. The wicked, as the minister gathered
from the frank talk of the committee, included all who did not belong
to their own sect.

Try as he might, the minister could find in his heart nothing save
charity. Anger and resentment were outside of his nature. He told
himself that he knew the world, and had experienced his share of
injustice, that he had seen sin in all of its hideous phases. Yet,
even for the unrepentant sinner, Thorpe had only kindness.

Of one sin only, Thorpe failed in comprehension. As he had said to
Anthony Dexter, he could excuse a liar, pardon a thief, and pity a
murderer, but he had only contempt for a shirk.

Persistently, he analysed and questioned himself, but got no further.
To him, all sin resolved itself at last into injustice, and he did not
believe that any one was ever intentionally unjust. But the
congregation desired to hear of hell--"as if," thought Thorpe,
whimsically, "I received daily reports."

With a sigh, he turned to his blank sheet. "In the earlier stages of
our belief," he wrote, "we conceived of hell as literally a place of
fire and brimstone, of eternal suffering and torture. In the light
which has come to us later, we perceive that hell is a spiritual state,
and realise that the consciousness of a sin is its punishment."

Then he tore the sheet into bits, for this was not what his
congregation wanted; yet it was his sincere belief. He could not
stultify himself to please his audience--they must take him as he was,
or let him go.

Yet the thought of leaving was unpleasant, for he had found work to do
in a field where, as it seemed to him, he was sorely needed. His
parishioners had heard much of punishment, but very little of mercy and
love. They were tangled in doctrinal meshes, distraught by quibbles,
and at swords' points with each other.

He felt that he must in some way temporise, and hold his place until he
had led his flock to a loftier height. He had no desire to force his
opinions upon any one else, but he wished to make clear his own strong,
simple faith