ll such searching
analysis, for instance, as she had applied to the character of
Hamlet, when she had had to get up one of Shakespeare's plays for her
examination. She had worked very hard at that, had really taken every
one of his speeches and soliloquies, and had tried to gather his true
character from them as well as from his actions.

At this point she wandered away from the subject a little and began to
wonder when she should hear the result of the examination, and to hope
that she might get a first. By and by she came to herself with a sudden
and very uncomfortable shock. If the sort of work she had given to
Hamlet was study, HAD she ever studied the character of Christ?

She had all her life heard what her father had to say against Him, and
what a good many well-meaning, but not very convincing, people had to
say for Him. She had heard a few sermons and several lectures on various
subjects connected with Christ's religion. She had read many books both
for and against Him. She had read the New Testament. But could she quite
honestly say that she had STUDIED the character of Christ? Had she not
been predisposed to think her father in the right? He would not at all
approve of that. Had she been a true Freethinker? Had she not taken a
good deal to be truth because he said it? If so, she was not a bit more
fair than the majority of Christians who never took the trouble to go
into things for themselves, and study things from the point of view of
an outsider.

In the silence and darkness of her little room, she began to suspect a
good many unpleasant and hitherto unknown facts about herself.

"After all, I do believe that Mr. Osmond was right," she confessed at
length. "I am glad to get back my belief in him; but I've come to a
horrid bit of lath and plaster in myself where I thought it was all good
stone." She fell asleep and dreamed of the heathen Chinee, reading the
translation of the translation of her father's words, and disbelieving
altogether in "that invented demagogue, Luke Raeburn."

The next day Charles Osmond, sitting at work in his study, and feeling
more depressed and hopeless than he would have cared to own even to
himself, was roused by the arrival of a little three-cornered note. It
was as follow:

"Dear Mr. Osmond, You made me feel very angry yesterday, and sad, too,
for of course it was a case of 'Et tu, Brute.' But last night I came
to the unpleasant conclusion that you were quite right, and th