e state of the soul at death.
The words "damned" and "damnation," with all their falsely theologized
significance, rang through the little church and made people shudder,
though all the time the speaker knew well enough that there were no such
words in the New Testament. Had he been there himself to see he could
not have described his material hell more graphically. Presently,
leaning right over the pulpit, his eyes fixed on the manor pew just
beneath him, he asked in thundering tones "My brethren, have you ever
realized what the word LOST means?" Then came a long catalogue of those
who in Mr. Cuthbert's opinion would undoubtedly be "lost," in which of
course all Erica's friends and relatives were unhesitatingly placed.

Now to hear what we sincerely believe to be error crammed down the
throats of a congregation is at all times a great trial; but, when our
nearest and dearest are remorselessly thrust down to the nethermost
hell, impatience is apt to turn to wrath. Erica thought of her gentle,
loving, unselfish mother, and though nothing could alter her conviction
that long ere now she had learned the truths hidden from her in life,
yet she could not listen to Mr. Cuthbert's horrible words without
indignant emotion. A movement from Donovan recalled her. Little Dorothy
was on his knees fast asleep; he quietly reached out his hand, took up
Erica's prayer book which was nearest to him, and wrote a few words on
the fly leaf, handling the book to her. She read them. "Definition of
LOST: not found yet." Then the anger and grief and pain died away, and,
though the preacher still thundered overhead, God's truth stole into
Erica's heart once more by means of one of his earliest consecrated
preachers a little child. Once more Dolly and her father were to her a
parable; and presently, glancing away through the sunny south window,
her eye fell upon a small marble tablet just below it that she had not
before noticed, and this furnished her with thoughts which outlasted the
sermon.

At the top was a medallion, the profile of the same fine, soldierly
looking man whose portrait hung in Donovan's study, and which was
so wonderfully like both himself and little Ralph. Beneath was the
following inscription:

"In loving Memory of RALPH FARRANT,
Who died at Porthkerran, Cornwall,
May 3, 18--, Aged 45

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and
cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no