eprive me of my salary."

She did not press this.

"You mustn't think me a martyr," he pleaded, in a lighter tone.

She paid no heed to this protest, but continued to regard him with a face
lighted by enthusiasm.

"Oh, that's splendid of you!" she cried. "You are going to speak the
truth as you see it, and let them do their worst. Of course,
fundamentally, it isn't merely because they're orthodox that they won't
like it, although they'll say so, and perhaps think so. It will be
because if you have really found the truth--they will instinctively, fear
its release. For it has a social bearing, too--hasn't it?--although you
haven't explained that part of it."

"It has a distinct social bearing," he replied, amazed at the way her
mind flew forward and grasped the entire issue, in spite of the fact that
her honesty still refused to concede his premises. Such were the
contradictions in her that he loved. And, though she did not suspect it,
she had in her the Crusader's spirit. "I have always remembered what
you once said, that many who believed themselves Christians had an
instinctive feeling that there is a spark in Christianity which, if
allowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. And
that they had covered the spark with ashes. I, too," he added
whimsically, "was buried under the ashes."

"And the spark," she demanded, "is not Socialism--their nightmare?"

"The spark is Christianity itself--but I am afraid they will not be able
to distinguish it from Socialism. The central paradox in Christianity
consists in the harmonizing of the individual and socialistic spirit, and
this removes it as far from the present political doctrine of socialism
as it is possible to be. Christianity, looked at from a certain
viewpoint,--and I think the proper viewpoint,--is the most
individualistic of religions, since its basic principle is the
development of the individual into an autonomous being."

They stood facing each other on an open stretch of lawn. The place was
deserted. Through the trees, in the near distance, the sightless front
of the Ferguson mansion blazed under the September sun.

"Individualistic!" she repeated, as though dazed by the word applied to
the religion she had discarded. "I can't understand. Do you think I
ever can understand?" she asked him, simply.

"It seems to me you understand more than you are willing to give yourself
credit for," he answered seriously. "You don't take into accoun