comparative quiet of the last year was now ended. A new
foe had arisen in the person of a certain retired cheesemonger, who had
sworn war to the knife against the apostle of atheism. Unfortunately,
Mr. Pogson's war was not undertaken in a Christ-like spirit; his zeal
was fast changing into personal animosity, and he had avowed the he
would crush Raeburn, though it should cost him the whole of his fortune.
This very day he had brought into action the mischievous and unfair
blasphemy laws, and to everybody's amazement, had commenced a
prosecution against Raeburn for a so-called "blasphemous libel" in one
of his recent pamphlets. An attack on the liberty of the press was to
Raeburn what the sound of the trumpet is to the war horse. Yet, now that
the first excitement was over, he had somehow sunk into a fit of black
depression. How was it? Was his strength failing? Was he growing old
unfit for his work?

He was roused at length by a knock at his door. The servant entered
with a number of letters. He turned them over mechanically until some
handwriting which reminded him of his mother's made him pause. The
letter bore the Greyshot postmark; it must be from his sister Isabel. He
opened it with some eagerness; there had been no communication between
them since the time of his wife's death, and though he had hoped that
the correspondence once begun might have been continued, nothing more
had come of it. The letter proved short, and not altogether palatable.
It began with rejoicings over Erica's change of views, the report of
which had reached Mrs. Fane-Smith. It went on to regret that he did
not share in the change. Raeburn's lip curled as he read. Then came
a request that Erica might be allowed to visit her relations, and the
letter ended with a kindly-meant but mistaken offer.

"My husband and I both feel that there are many objections to Erica's
remaining in her present home. We should be much pleased if she would
live with us at any rate, until she has met with some situation which
would provide her with a suitable and permanent residence."

The offer was not intended to be insulting, but undoubtedly, to such
a father as Raeburn, it was a gross insult. His eyes flashed fire, and
involuntarily he crushed the letter in his hand; then, a little ashamed
of the passionate act, he forced himself deliberately to smooth it out
again, and, folding it accurately, put it in his pocket. A note for
Erica remained in the envelope; he