face with the realization that there were forces in life--in nature
perhaps, more potent than his love and his own strong will."

Father Roland nodded.

"I understand," he said, and he sank back farther in his corner by the
window, so that his face was shrouded a little in shadow. "This other
man loved a woman, too. And she was beautiful. He thought she was the
most beautiful thing in the world. It is great love that makes beauty."

"But this woman--my friend's wife--was so beautiful that even the eyes
of other women were fascinated by her. I have seen her when it seemed
she must have come fresh from the hands of angels; and at first, when my
friend was the happiest man in the world, he was fond of telling her
that it must have been the angels who put the colour in her face and the
wonderful golden fires in her shining hair. It wasn't his love for her
that made her beautiful. She _was_ beautiful."

"And her soul?" softly questioned the shadowed lips of the Missioner.

The other's hand tightened slowly.

"In making her the angels forgot a soul, I guess," he said.

"Then your friend did not love her." The Little Missioner's voice was
quick and decisive. "There can be no love where there is no soul."

"That is impossible. He did love her. I know it."

"I still disagree with you. Without knowing your friend, I say that he