nfluences of our
modern time on religious action are so blunting and dulling, because in
truth the religious motive itself is being constantly modified, whether
the religious person knows it or not. Is it possible now for a good
woman with a heart, in Catherine Elsmere's position, to maintain herself
against love, and all those subtle forces to which such a change as
Elsmere's opens the house doors, without either hardening, or greatly
yielding? Let Catherine's further story give some sort of an answer.

Poor soul! As they sat together in the study, after he had brought her
home, Robert, with averted eyes, went through the plans he had already
thought into shape. Catherine listened, saying almost nothing. But
never, never had she loved this life of theirs so well as now that she
was called on, at barely a week's notice, to give it up for ever! For
Robert's scheme, in which her reason fully acquiesced, was to keep to
their plan of going to Switzerland, he having first, of course, settled
all things with the Bishop, and having placed his living in the hands of
Mowbray Elsmere. When they left the rectory, in a week or ten days time,
he proposed, in fact, his voice almost inaudible as he did so, that
Catherine should leave it for good.

'Everybody, had better suppose,' he said choking, 'that we are coming
back. Of course we need say nothing. Armitstead will be here for next
week certainly. Then afterward I can come down and manage everything.
I shall get it over in a day if I can, and see nobody. I cannot say
good-by, nor can you.'

'And next Sunday, Robert?' she asked him, after a pause.

'I shall write to Armitstead this afternoon and ask him, if he possibly
can, to come to-morrow afternoon, instead of Monday, and take the
service.'

Catherine's hands clasped each other still more closely. So then she had
heard her husband's voice for the last time in the public ministry of
the Church, in prayer, in exhortation, in benediction! One of the most
sacred traditions of her life was struck from her at a blow.

It was long before either of them spoke again. Then she ventured another
question.

'And have you any idea of what we shall do next, Robert--of--of our
future?'

'Shall we try London for a little?' he answered in a queer, strained
voice, leaning against the window, and looking out, that he might not
see her. 'I should find work among the poor--so would you--and I could
go on with my book. And your mother and sis