morality. Year after year went by, and at least a man came by who
treated Mr. Turnbull's secularist shop with a real respect and
seriousness. He was a young man in a grey plaid, and he smashed
the window.

He was a young man, born in the Bay of Arisaig, opposite Rum and
the Isle of Skye. His high, hawklike features and snaky black
hair bore the mark of that unknown historic thing which is
crudely called Celtic, but which is probably far older than the
Celts, whoever they were. He was in name and stock a Highlander
of the Macdonalds; but his family took, as was common in such
cases, the name of a subordinate sept as a surname, and for all
the purposes which could be answered in London, he called himself
Evan MacIan. He had been brought up in some loneliness and
seclusion as a strict Roman Catholic, in the midst of that little
wedge of Roman Catholics which is driven into the Western
Highlands. And he had found his way as far as Fleet Street,
seeking some half-promised employment, without having properly
realized that there were in the world any people who were not
Roman Catholics. He had uncovered himself for a few moments
before the statue of Queen Anne, in front of St. Paul's
Cathedral, under the firm impression that it was a figure of the
Virgin Mary. He was somewhat surprised at the lack of deference
shown to the figure by the people bustling by. He did not
understand that their one essential historical principle, the one
law truly graven on their hearts, was the great and comforting
statement that Queen Anne is dead. This faith was as fundamental
as his faith, that Our Lady was alive. Any persons he had talked
to since he had touched the fringe of our fashion or civilization
had been by a coincidence, sympathetic or hypocritical. Or if