ve in it all, or
do I not?" He wanted a sign; and when the storm of thunder and
lightning burst like the most tremendous sign one could ask for, he
seized this opportunity of risking his life, and said: "Now I stand
here for God to take me or leave me."

He was left, not taken. The fear vanished, the doubt passed, and he
made his way into the Baptist Church exactly as if, as Mr. Osborn had
said, there was an irresistible pressure behind him, and he could not
make his way anywhere else.

It was all right after his baptism. He knew then that he would never
doubt again. The faith was permanent now: it would last as long as he
himself lasted. He had no more evil dreams. He slept soundly, as a man
sleeps when he has got home late after a tiring journey. And in the
morning and the evening of each day he thanked God for having
accepted him.

Then came the years of tranquillity, the respite from pain, his golden
time. He was prosperous, respected; he had a loved and loving wife,
and lovely lovable children; he had grain in his barns, money in his
bank, peace in his mind. He felt too all the better part in him
growing bigger and bigger; religion, in simplifying his ideas, had
increased their value; his intellectual power seemed wider and more
comprehensive when exercised with regard to all things that can be
learned, now that he had entirely ceased to exercise it with regard to
things that must not be questioned.

And then there had happened something that was like the knocking down
of a house of cards, the blowing out of a paper lantern, or the
obliteration of a picture scratched on sand when the inrushing tide
sweeps over it.

His soul turned sick at the thought that God had not accepted, but
rejected him. God refused his offer of humble homage, had seen the
latent wickedness in him, had kept him alive until he also could see
and loathe himself for what he really was--a wretch who in wishes and
cravings, if not in accomplished facts, was as vile as the man he had
slain.

XXXII

Dale's meditations had carried him backward and forward through the
past years, and left him against the blank wall of the present.

He was sitting on the fallen beech tree in the woodland glade. The sun
had set, and the night promised to be darker than recent nights; when
he looked at the grand gold watch given to him by his admirers, he
could only just see its hands. Nearly nine o'clock. He had been here a
long while. It was hours