"What do you mean by 'soul'? Have I a soul?--and what do you suppose is
going to happen to it?"

The words were flung out with a concentrated passion--almost an
anguish--that for the moment struck him dumb. They both grew pale; he
looked at her steadily, and spoke her name, in a low appealing voice. But
she took no notice; she rose, and, turning away from him, she leant
against the mantelpiece, speaking with a choking eagerness that forced
its way.

"You were in the chapel last night--very late. I know, for I heard the
door open and shut. You must be unhappy, or you wouldn't spend so much
time praying. Are you unhappy about me? I know you don't want to force
me; but if, in time, I don't agree with you--if it goes on all our
lives--how can you help thinking that I shall be lost--lost
eternally--separated from you? You would think it of Mr. Williams if he
left the Church. I know you told me once about ignorance--invincible
ignorance. But here there will be no ignorance. I shall have seen
everything--heard everything--known everything. If living here doesn't
teach one, what could? And"--she paused, then resumed with even greater
emphasis--"and as far as I can see I shall reject it all--wilfully,
knowingly, deliberately. What will you say? What do you say now--to
yourself--when--when you pray for me? What do you really think--what do
you fear--what _must_ you fear? I ought to know."

Helbeck looked at her without answering for a long moment. Her agitation,
his painful silence, bore pitiful testimony to the strange,
insurmountable reality of those facts of the spirit that stood like rocks
in the stream of their love.