have died ignorant like this!" exclaimed Mr.
Fane-Smith with a shudder.

"'Tis in truth a tragedy," said Donovan, sighing. "But I can well
believe that in another world the barriers which he allowed to distort
his vision will be removed; the very continuance of existence would
surely be sufficient."

"You are a universalist?" said Mr. Fane-Smith, not in the condemnatory
tone he would once have assumed, but humbly, anxiously, like one who
gropes his way in a dark place.

"Yes," replied Donovan. "Believing in a universal Father, I am naturally
that. Upon any other system, what do you make of the good which exists
in so many of those who deny all in which you believe? Where does the
good go to? I stood beside the death bed of that noble man this morning.
At the very last I saw most touching proofs of his strong sense of
justice, his honesty, his desire to promote the good of others, his
devotion to his child. Can you believe that all that goodness, which of
necessity comes from God, is to go down into what you call everlasting
punishment? Don't mistake me. Thank God there is a punishment which no
one would wish to forego, such punishment, such drawing forth of the
native good, such careful help in the rooting out of what is evil as all
good fathers give to their children."

They were interrupted by the opening of the door. Mr. Fane-Smith started
and almost trembled when, on turning round, he saw Erica. She was pale,
but preternaturally calm looking, however, they all felt, as if in her
father's death, she had received her own death blow.

"I thought I heard you," she said in that strangely "gravened" voice
which is sometimes one of the consequences of great and sudden trouble.
"Has Donovan taken you into the next room? Will you come?"

For his life Mr. Fane-Smith could not have refused anything which she
asked him; there was something in her manner that made the tears rush to
his eyes though he was not, as a rule, easily moved.

He followed her obediently though with a sort of reluctance; but when he
was once there he was glad. Ever since the previous day he had not been
able to rid himself of that stern, hard look with which Raeburn had so
terribly rebuked him; it had persistently haunted him. There was nothing
stern in this dead face. It was still and passionless, bearing the
look of repose which, spite of a harassed life, it had always borne in
moments of leisure. He hardly looked as though he were dead. Erica c