am ready to suffer for it. I say in all humility that I believe God will
give me grace to die for it."

She had given him her hand. He was still holding it when he spoke his
final sentence, looking, not into her face, but into a space beyond it.
His eyes more than suggested the eyes of a martyr waiting undaunted for
the lighting of the fagots. Suddenly he dropped her hand. He looked for
a moment into her face. He saw that the tears were upon it. He turned
and walked out of the room without a word.

No word came from her.

He knew that he had left her at exactly the right moment. She was
undoubtedly annoyed by the publication of the book; but that was
because she had read some reviews of it, and was, girl-like, under the
impression that the murmur of the reviewers was the mighty voice that
echoes round the world. He felt that she would think differently when
his real persecution began. He looked forward with great hope to the
result of his real persecution. She would never hold out against that.
If the bishop would only take action at once and attempt to deprive him
of his pastorate, there was nothing that he might not look for.

And then he reflected that on the following Sunday the church would be
crowded to the doors. She would see that. She would see the thousands
of the fashionable women--he hoped even for men--who would fill every
available seat, every available standing place in the church, and who
would all be anxious to hear his defense. That would show her that
the publication of this book had raised him far above the heads of the
ordinary clergyman who droned away, Sunday after Sunday, in half empty
churches to congregations that never became interested. Yes, for many