Where is it?"

"Yes," retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's the
cry of many other men. What is the answer?"

"It is the thing that you threw over--or believed you had thrown
over--and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits to
answer you."

A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute.
Finally Mark broke it.

"You told me, Father," he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary's
philosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I have
been gossiping about you. The best point you make is--yourself. I
know what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you have
suffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much--resignation? Does a
God of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am not
saying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems to
wonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be in
the Church you think so perfect?"

The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I can
answer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have never
talked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse to
talk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passed
through the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those empty
hands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in high
places, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and I
seemed to succeed. Then--and very suddenly and quietly--she pulled me