og.' They always make a
good deal of capital out of a convert."

Erica colored and had to bite her lip hard to keep back the quick retort
which occurred to her all too naturally.

By and by Mr. Masterman and another well-known secularist walked in.
They both knew of Erica's defection. Mr. Masterman attacked her at once
in a sort of bantering way.

"So Miss Raeburn, now I understand why some time ago you walked out in
the middle of my lecture one evening."

And then followed a most irritating semi-serious remonstrance, in
questionable taste. Erica writhed under it. A flippant canvassing of
her most private and sacred thoughts was hard to bear, but she held
her ground, and, being not without a touch of her father's dignity, Mr.
Masterman presently beat a retreat, not feeling quite so well satisfied
with himself as usual. His companion did not allude directly to her
change of views, but treated her with a sort of pitying condescension,
as if she had been a mild lunatic.

There was some sort of committee being held in the study that evening.
The next person to arrive was Professor Gosse and almost immediately
after came Mr. Harmston, a charming old man, whom Erica had known from
her childhood. They came in and had some coffee before going into the
study. Mrs. Craigie talked to Mr. Harmston. Erica, looking her loveliest
waited on them. Tom watched them all philosophically from the hearth
rug.

"I am sorry to hear you have deserted your colors," said the professor,
looking more grave than she had ever seen him look before. Then, his
voice softening a little as he looked at her, "I expect it all comes of
that illness of yours. I believe religion is just an outgrowth of bad
health mens sana in corpore sano, you know. Never mind, you must still
come to my workshop, and I shall see if science won't reconvert you."

He moved away with his good-humored, shaggy-looking face, leaving Erica
to old Mr. Harmston.

"I am much grieved to hear this of you, Erica," he said, lowering his
voice, and bringing his gray head near to hers "as grieved as if you
were my own child. You will be a sore loss to us all."

Erica felt this keenly, for she was very fond of the old man.

"Do you think it does not hurt me to grieve you all?" she said,
piteously. "But one must be honest."

"Quite right, my dear," said the old man, "but that does not make our
loss the less heavy. We had hoped great things of you, Erica. It
is grievous to me that