of a certain pious divine, whose chief claim upon
the attention and gratitude of posterity seemed to be that, during a
very long career, he had "confessed" more Anglican notabilities than any
of his rivals, and had used up, in his church, an amount of incense that
would have put a Roman Catholic priest to shame. On the morning in
question the reading was interrupted. Mrs. Ardagh was called away to
consult with a lay-worker in the slums upon some scheme for reclaiming
the submerged masses, and Catherine, running in to her mother's boudoir
after a walk with Mark, found the tall, narrow-shouldered girl with the
oriental eyes sitting alone with the apostolic memoirs lying open upon
her knees. Catherine was not sorry. She took off her fur coat and sat
down.

"What are you and my mother reading, Miss Levita?" she asked.

Jenny told her.

"Is it interesting?"

"I suppose it ought to be," Jenny answered, thoughtlessly.

Then a flush ran over her thin cheeks, on which there were a great many
little freckles.

"I mean that it is very interesting," she added. "Your mother will tell
you so, Mrs. Sirrett."

"Perhaps. But I was asking your opinion."

It struck Catherine that Jenny had her opinion and was scarcely as
compliant as Mr. Ardagh evidently supposed her to be. At Catherine's
last remark Jenny glanced up. The two girls looked into each other's
eyes, and, in Jenny's, Catherine thought she saw a flickering defiance.

"I was asking your opinion," she repeated.

"Well, Mrs. Sirrett," Jenny said, more hardily, "I don't know why it is.
I admire and love goodness, yes, as your mother--who's a saint, I
think--does. But I'll tell you frankly that I think it's often very dull
to read about. Don't you think so?"

She blushed again, and let the heavy white lids droop over her eyes,
which had glittered almost like the eyes of a fever patient while she
was speaking.

"Only when dull people write about it, surely," said Catherine.

"I don't know," Jenny said, twisting her black stuff dress with nervous
fingers. "I often think that in the books of the cleverest authors there
are dull moments, and that those dull moments are nearly always when
the good, the really excellent, characters are being written about."

"And in real life, Miss Levita?" asked Catherine. "Do you find the good
people duller, less interesting, than the bad ones in real life?"

"I haven't known many very bad ones, Mrs. Sirrett."

"Well--but those you