tle with
herself as she would, there was constantly emerging in her now a note
of anger, not with Robert, but, as it were, with those malign forces of
which he was the prey.

'What have I to give them?' he repeated sadly. 'Very little, Catherine,
as it seems to me to-night. But come and see.'

His tone had a melancholy which went to her heart. In reality, he was
in that state of depression which often precedes a great effort. But she
was startled by his suggestion.

'Come with you, Robert? To the meeting of a secularist club!'

'Why not? I shall be there to protest against outrage to what both
you and I hold dear. And the men are decent fellows. There will be no
disturbance.'

'What are you going to do?' she asked in a low voice.

'I have been trying to think it out,' he said with difficulty. 'I want
simply, if I can, to transfer to their minds that image of Jesus of
Nazareth which thought--and love--and reading--have left upon my own.
I want to make them realize for themselves the historical character,
so far as it can be, realized--to make them see for themselves the real
figure, as it went in and out among men--so far as our eyes can now
discern it.'

The words came quicker toward the end, while the voice sank--took the
vibrating characteristic note the wife knew so well.

'How can that help them?' she said abruptly. 'Your historical Christ,
Robert, will never win souls. If he was God, every word you speak will
insult him. If he was man, he was not a good man!'

'Come and see,' was all he said, holding out his hand to her. It was in
some sort a renewal of the scene at Les Avants, the inevitable renewal
of an offer he felt bound to make, and she felt bound to resist.

She let her knitting fall and placed her hand in his. The baby on the
rug was alternately caressing and scourging a woolly baa-lamb, which was
the fetish of her childish worship. Her broken, incessant baby-talk,
and the ringing kisses with which she atoned to the baa-lamb for each
successive outrage, made a running accompaniment to the moved undertones
of the parents.

'Don't ask me, Robert, don't ask me! Do you want me to come and sit
thinking of last year's Easter Eve?'

'Heaven knows I was miserable enough last Easter Eve,' he said slowly.

'And now,' she exclaimed, looking at him with a sudden agitation of
every feature, 'now you are not miserable? You are quite confident and
sure? You are going to devote your life to attacking the fe