Dr. Howe folded the check away in a battered leather pocket-book, shiny
on the sides and ragged about the corners, and overflowing with odds and
ends of memoranda and newspaper clippings; a row of fish-hooks was
fastened into the flap, and he stopped to adjust these before he went
into the house to answer Helen's letter.

He snubbed her good-naturedly, telling her not to worry about things
too great for her, but beneath his consciousness there lurked a little
discomfort, or even irritation. Duties which seem dead and buried, and
forgotten, are avenged by the sting of memory. In the rector's days at
the theological school, he had himself known those doubts which may lead
to despair, or to a wider and unflinching gaze into the mysteries of
light. But Archibald Howe reached neither one condition nor the other.
He questioned many things; he even knew the heartache which the very fear
of losing faith gives. But the way was too hard, and the toil and anguish
of the soul too great; he turned back into the familiar paths of the
religion he knew and loved; and doubt grew vague, not in assured belief,
but in the plain duties of life. After a little while, he almost forgot
that he ever had doubted. Only now and then, when some questioning soul
came to him, would he realize that he could not help it by his own
experience, only by a formula,--a text-book spirituality; then he would
remember, and promise himself that the day should come when he would face
uncertainty and know what he believed. But it was continually eluding
him, and being put off; he could not bear to run the risk of disturbing
the faith of others; life was too full; he had not the time for study and
research,--and perhaps it would all end in deeper darkness. Better be
content with what light he had. So duty was neglected, and his easy,
tranquil life flowed on.