said the rector. "I ought to tell you," he went on, regarding her, "in
view of the conversation we have had, that I have changed my mind
concerning a great many things we have talked about--although I have not
spoken of this as yet to any of the members of the congregation."

She was speechless, and could only stare at him blankly.

"I mean," he continued, with a calmness that astonished her afterwards,
"that I have changed my whole conception as to the functions and future
of the Church, that I have come to your position, that we must make up
our minds for ourselves, and not have them made up for us. And that we
must examine into the truth of all statements, and be governed
accordingly."

Her attitude was one of mingled admiration, concern, and awe. And he saw
that she had grasped something of the complications which his course was
likely to bring about.

"But you are not going to leave us!" she managed to exclaim.

"Not if it is possible to remain," he said, smiling.

"I am so glad." She was still overpowered by the disclosure. "It is
good of you to tell me. Do you mind my telling Phil?"

"Not at all," he assured her.

"Will you forgive me," she asked, after a slight pause during which she
had somewhat regained her composure, "if I say that I always thought, or
rather hoped you would change? that your former beliefs seemed so--unlike