ain your better opinion of me. I will be
plain and honest from the first; and, therefore, I tell you, I do not
believe there is a God."

The bishop did not withdraw his arm, nor start with horror, nor call him
a fool (though he _was_ one). On the contrary, he pressed Tournier's arm
a little closer, and said, very softly, as a kind doctor might say when
he finds a patient's symptoms more serious than he thought, but does not
therefore give him up, "I am so sorry."

There was a pause for a minute or two, and they went on walking together.

Tournier was the first to speak.

"I cannot believe that a good God (and I do not care to believe in an
evil one--a devil, as the heathen do, so at least I have heard), but I
cannot believe that a good God would blast my hopes as they have been
blasted: and, therefore, I believe in none. I cannot. Excuse me,
Monseigneur, but my reason refuses to let me do so. I can only believe
in fate."

"And who regulates fate?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, I know not. It regulates itself, I suppose."

"And therefore is God," said the bishop, as if he were musing. "But tell
me, my friend, how it is you take to heart so keenly the unkindness of
fate (as you call it) to yourself, while thousands are buffeted by
misfortunes, perhaps as great as your own, and yet maintain equanimity of
mind, and even enjoy some pleasure in life?"

"They are not sensitive as I am."

"And who makes the difference?"

"Fate--Chance--Destiny."

"How miserable a notion! However, I should be wanting in my duty to Holy
Church, of which I am an unworthy minister," and here he disengaged his
arm from Tournier's, and looking him steadily in the face, with an
expression, not of severity, but of yearning tenderness, that pierced the
manly fellow's heart more than a hundred anathemas would have done, "if I
did not most solemnly warn thee that these notions of thine are damnable
heresy, and that it behoves thee therefore to repent of this thy
wickedness, if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be forgiven thee."

And then the good bishop took him by the hand and added, "Still look on
me as a would-be friend, and whenever you want me seek me, and better
far, whenever you want God seek Him, and you shall surely find Him."

He turned away and went to his lodging, not in the barracks, but in the
village of Stilton, about a mile off.

Captain Tournier soon lost the impression made by the solemn words, but
he never to hi