naturally, I asked him how it had happened, what had brought it to
pass."

"Yes--?" prompted Maria Dolores, as he paused.

"Well," said John, his face hardening, "he thereupon proceeded to tell
me in his quiet way, with his cool voice (it's like smooth-flowing cold
water), absolutely the most inhuman story I have ever had to keep my
patience and listen to."

"What was the story?" asked Maria Dolores.

"If you can credit such inhumanity, it was this," answered John. "It
seems that he fell in love--with a girl in Boston, where he lives. And
what's more, and worse, the girl fell in love with him. So there they
were, engaged. But she was a Catholic, and his state of unbelief was a
cause of great grief to her. So she pleaded with him, and persuaded,
till, merely to comfort her, and without the faintest suspicion that his
scepticism could be weakened, he promised to give the Catholic position
a thorough reconsideration, to read certain books, and to put himself
under instruction with a priest: which he did. Which he did, if you
please, with the result, to his own unutterable surprise, that one fine
day he woke up and discovered that he'd been convinced, that he
_believed_."

"Yes?" said Maria Dolores, eagerly. "Yes--? And then? And the girl?"

"Ah," said John, with a groan, "the girl That's the pity of it. That's
where his black old Puritan blood comes in. Blood? It isn't blood--it's
some fluid form of stone--it's flint dissolved in vinegar. The girl!