his was not all, neither did it touch the depths of the question.
War, ghastly as it was, might superficially be justified. More than
once, when he thought of England's plighted word to defend a small,
neighbouring state, when he heard of tens of thousands of England's
most stalwart sons leaving home and country, not for aggrandisement,
nor gain of any sort, but out of desire to keep England's plighted
word, to maintain her honour unsullied, and defend the weak, he felt
that he must cast everything aside, and offer himself for the fray.
But then he had called himself a Christian, he believed in the teaching
of the Prince of Peace. How could a man, believing in the lessons of
the Sermon on the Mount, accepting the dictum, "Bless them that curse
you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use
you and persecute you," do his utmost to murder men who believed in the
same Lord as he did?

No, no, it would not do. If Christianity were right, war was wrong.
Either Christianity was a foolish thing, an impossible dream, and all
our profession of it so much empty cant, or war was something which
every Christian should turn from with loathing and horror.

Bob had made no outward profession of Christianity. He had been so far
influenced by the spirit of the age, that he seldom spoke about
religion, and perhaps many would have regarded him as by no means an
exemplary Christian. Nevertheless, deep down in his life was a
reverence for Christ and His words. Humanly speaking, the most potent
influence in his life was his dead father. Bob, although he had never
been inside a Friends' Meeting House, and was not in any way regarded
as a member of their community, was one at heart. Either Christ's
teaching must be taken to mean what it said, or it was of no value; and
Bob took it seriously. Hitherto, it had not clashed with what people
had expected of him; but now it seemed to him he must either give up
the faith his father had held, or he must hold aloof from this war, and
fight for peace.

For days he had seen the trend of affairs, and what they would lead to,
and although he had said nothing to any one, he had decided upon the
course of his life. Thus it was, when at the tennis party the other
men had asked him what he was going to do, he told them.

But he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him, never imagined
that his decision would separate them. Yes, that was what it meant.
If he held f