irls, taking even less share in the conversation than they did; and
Arthur, though he talked as became the master of the house, talked
but little to her.

On the following morning they all went to church, of course. Who has
courage to remain away from church when staying at the clergyman's
house? No one ever; unless it be the clergyman's wife, or perhaps an
independent self-willed daughter. At Hurst Staple, however, on this
Sunday they all attended. Adela was in deepest mourning. Her thick
black veil was down, so as to hide her tears. The last Sunday she had
been at church her father had preached his last sermon.

Bertram, as he entered the door, could not but remember how long it
was since he had joined in public worship. Months and months had
passed over him since he had allowed himself to be told that the
Scriptures moved him in sundry places to acknowledge and confess his
sins. And yet there had been a time when he had earnestly poured
forth his frequent prayers to heaven; a time not long removed. It
was as yet hardly more than three years since he had sworn within
himself on the brow of Olivet to devote himself to the service of his
Saviour. Why had that oath been broken? A girl had ridiculed it; a
young girl had dissipated all that by the sheen of her beauty, by the
sparkle of her eye, by the laughter of her ruddy lip. He had promised
himself to his God, but the rustling of silks had betrayed his heart.
At her instance, at her first word, that promise had been whistled
down the wind.

And to what had this brought him now? As for the bright eyes, and
the flashing beauty, and the ruddy lips, they were made over in
fee-simple to another, who was ready to go further than he had gone
in seeking this world's vanities. Even the price of his apostasy had
vanished from him.

But was this all? was this nearly all? was this as anything to that
further misery which had come upon him? Where was his faith now,
his true, youthful, ardent faith; the belief of his inner heart;
the conviction of a God and a Saviour, which had once been to him
the source of joy? Had it all vanished when, under the walls of
Jerusalem, over against that very garden of Gethsemane, he had
exchanged the aspirations of his soul for the pressure of a soft
white hand?

No one becomes an infidel at once. A man who has really believed does
not lose by a sudden blow the firm convictions of his soul. But when
the work has been once commenced, when the fi