"Look there," said the librarian, with a quick wave of his hand, "those
are some which came in this week, and I had them put here to look over.
Two-thirds of 'em on religion, or religious philosophy. Does that
suggest anything to you clergymen?"

"Do many persons read them, Mr. Engel?" said the rector, at length.

"Read them!" cried Mr. Engel, quizzically. "We librarians are a sort of
weather-vanes, if people only knew enough to consult us. We can hardly
get a sufficient number of these new religious books the good ones,
I mean--to supply the demand. And the Lord knows what trash is devoured,
from what the booksellers tell me. It reminds me of the days when this
library was down on Fifth Street, years ago, and we couldn't supply
enough Darwins and Huxleys and Spencers and popular science generally.
That was an agnostic age. But now you'd be surprised to see the
different kinds of men and women who come demanding books on religion
--all sorts and conditions. They're beginning to miss it out of their
lives; they want to know. If my opinion's worth anything, I should not
hesitate to declare that we're on the threshold of a greater religious
era than the world has ever seen."

Hodder thrust a book back into the pile, and turned abruptly, with a
manner that surprised the librarian. No other clergyman to whom he had
spoken on this subject had given evidence of this strong feeling, and the
rector of St. John's was the last man from whom he would have expected
it.

"Do you really think so?" Hodder demanded.