dged, it would be hard
for him to down. In Opdyke's place, Brenton would have turned his face
to the wall and made a long, long moan. In Brenton's position, Opdyke
would have kept his flags flying gayly, as long as there was a tatter
of them left.

Now, Brenton's accent showed that he resented the correction.

"Ours, if you will; at least, for the present. But, after all, what is
the good?"

Whittenden's reply came promptly.

"A common platform, where we can stand side by side, while we are doing
our individual work."

"But, if you don't believe in it?"

A sudden gleam of mirth came into Whittenden's clear eyes.

"Do you expect to put your foot on every single plank in any platform,
Brenton? If you do, you'll need to have it built just to your measure.
It seems to me that, in course of time, you'd find it a little lonely,
to say nothing of the minor fact that people work together all the
better for being on some sort of a common basis."

"But is work the only thing?" Brenton queried rather absently.

And the curly-headed rector by his side made swift, emphatic answer,--

"Yes."

"Then why--"

Whittenden interrupted him.

"What do you believe, Brenton? For any man is bound to have some shreds
of belief; that is, as long as he keeps out of the nearest asylum for
the incurable insane."

"My belief, or my profession?"

"Hang your profession!" Whittenden said impatiently. "Or else, hang on
to it, and keep still. But it's your belief I want, your creed, your
working platform."

"How do you know I have one?" Brenton asked rather irritably, for
Whittenden's attitude was distinctly less satisfying to him than it had
been of yore.

"Because I know the kind of men Saint Peter's has been accustomed to
demand. Also because I have talked to Reed Opdyke."

"And Opdyke told you--"

"Nothing; beyond the mere fact that he is very fond of you. Opdyke
doesn't care for many people; his very affection tells its story.
Still, that is beside the point. What tag ends of belief have you got
left?"

Even in its kindliness, the voice was masterful, the voice of the
thoroughbred, when he gets in earnest. Brenton longed to stiffen
himself against the mastery, but he could not. His ineffectual effort
lent an edge of sarcasm to his tone.

"When the eye of the parish is upon me, I read out the Nicene Creed in
the deepest voice at my disposal. When--"

"This is rather beneath your customary methods, Brenton," his companion