questioned statement. And, through all, he was ever conscious of
the young girl at his side, who, with her head bent over her
notebook, was absorbed in her work. While the most vital questions
of life were being discussed, he was yet always aware of that hand
traveling rapidly to and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of the
quick yet weary-looking change of posture.

Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm, Raeburn's speech was,
on the whole, temperate; it certainly should have been met with
consideration. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was incapable of
seeing any good in his opponent; his combative instincts were far
stronger than his Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many
times while listening to the champion of atheism, was even more
keenly wounded by the champion of his own cause. Abusive epithets
abounded in his retort; at last he left the subject under
discussion altogether, and launched into personalities of the most
objectionable kind. Raeburn sat with folded arms, listening with
a sort of cold dignity. He looked very different now from the
genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles Osmond had seen in his own
home but an hour or two ago. There was a peculiar look in his
tawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a look which was hard,
and cold, and steady. It told of an originally sensitive nature
inured to ill treatment; of a strong will which had long ago
steeled itself to endure; of a character which, though absolutely
refusing to yield to opposition, had grown slightly bitter, even
slightly vindictive in the process.

Brian could only watch in silent pain the little figure beside him.
Once at some violent term of abuse she looked up, and glanced for
a moment at the speaker; he just caught a swift, indignant flash