The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack of
faith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmly
believe--foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, if
he, too, could only _know_! He broke the silence.

"Father." He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courage
to continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget your
words regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet who
deliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion.
I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so I
thought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer to
merit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I see
now that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration to
other religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. I
turned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained always
unsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I had
inherited."

Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested," he said,
"deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led you
to do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind."

"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seems
to me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one.
I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, my
independence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge,
Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one's
actions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you see
what I mean?"