"They will only dash you against metaphorical rocks in the
nineteenth century," continued Raeburn. "I remember wondering why
the old clerk in my father's church always sung that verse lustily;
but you see we have exactly the same spirit now, only in a more
civilized form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty, as for
instance the way you were treated this afternoon."

"Oh, don't talk about that," said Erica, quickly, "I am going to
enjoy my Longfellow and forget the rest."

In truth, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father
and daughter; each had a way of putting back their bitter thoughts,
of dwelling whenever it was possible on the brighter side of life.
He knew that Raeburn was involved in most harassing litigation, was
burdened with debt, was confronted everywhere with bitter and often
violent opposition, yet he seemed to live above it all, for there
was a wonderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his
aspect, which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to
one who has spent his life in fighting against desperate odds. One
thing was quite clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he was
suffering for the truth, and was ready to endure anything in what
he considered the service of his fellow men. He did not seem
particularly anxious as to the evening's proceedings. On the
whole, they were rather a merry party as they walked along Gower
Street to the station.

But when they got out again at their destination, and walked
through the busy streets to the hall where the lecture was to be
given, a sort of seriousness fell upon all three. They were each
going to work in their different ways for what they considered the