of the change of their faith. The impetus of old association is
absent, and the force of novelty has died.

Underneath all this then, it must be remembered that the one thing
that was intensely real to him was his sense of loss of the one soul
in whom his own had been wrapped up. Even this afternoon as yesterday,
even this morning as he lay awake, he had been conscious of an
irresistible impulse to demand some sign, to catch some glimpse of
that which was now denied to him.

It was in this mood that he had read the book; and it is not to be
wondered at that he had been excited by it.

For it opened up to him, beneath all its sham mysticism, its
intolerable affectations, its grotesque parody of spirituality--of all
of which he was largely aware--a glimmering avenue of a faintly
possible hope of which he had never dreamed--a hope, at least, of that
half self-deception which is so tempting to certain characters.

Here, in this book, written by a living man, whose name and address
were given, were stories so startling, and theories so apparently
consonant with themselves and with other partly known facts--stories
and theories, too, which met so precisely his own overmastering
desire, that it is little wonder that he was affected by them.

Naturally, even during his reading, a thousand answers and adverse
comments had sprung to his mind--suggestions of fraud, of lying, of
hallucination--but yet, here the possibility remained. Here were
living men and women who, with the usual complement of senses and
reason, declared categorically and in detail, that on this and that