irn! If I could but save you from that brute's malice, I should care
very little for the rest."

"Since you only care about it for my sake, and I only for yours, I think
we may as well give up caring at all," said Erica, looking up at him
with a brave smile. "And, after all, Mr. Cringer, Q. C. can only keep me
in purgatory for a few hours at the outside. Don't you think, too, that
such a cruel thing will damage Mr. Pogson in the eyes of the jury?"

"Unfortunately, dear, juries are seldom inclined to show any delicate
considerateness to an atheist," said Raeburn.

And Erica knew that he spoke truly enough.

No more was said just then. Raeburn began rapidly to run through
his remaining correspondence a truly miscellaneous collection. Legal
letters, political letters, business letters requests for his autograph,
for his help, for his advice a challenge from a Presbyterian minister in
the north of Scotland to meet him in debate; the like from a Unitarian
in Norfolk; a coffin and some insulting verses in a match box, and
lastly an abrasive letter from a clergyman, holding him responsible
for some articles by Mr. Masterman, which he had nothing whatever to do
with, and of which he in fact disapproved.

"What would they think, Eric, if I insisted on holding the Bishop
of London responsible for every utterance of every Christian in the
diocese?" said Raeburn.

"They would think you were a fool," said Erica, cutting the coffin into
little bits as she spoke.

Raeburn smiled and penciled a word or two on the letter the pith of a
stinging reply.

CHAPTER XXXV. Raeburn v. Pogson

Oh, God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces!
Oh, God of freedom and of joyous hearts!
When Thy face looketh forth from all men's faces
There will be room enough in crowded marts.
Brood Thou around me, and the noise is o'er;
Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all
Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave.
God in thee, can His children's folly gall?
Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?
Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm;
Thou art my solitude, my mountain calm. George MacDonald

When a particularly unpleasant event has long been hanging over one's
head, sure to come at some time, though the precise date is unknown,
people of a certain disposition find it quite possible to live on pretty
comfortably through the waitin