I am never sure of what is in a woman’s heart. But I could not explain the constraint upon us except that perhaps she had always been waiting for my homecoming, still nourishing in her heart our childish love—still hoping. But there was nothing to hope. It was not in her power to conceive what I was. I was battered and scarred by fights she had never imagined, disillusioned of dreams she had never dreamed. I had left the village years ago—irrevocably. She would have been utterly lost in my world. At last, rather mournfully, I said "good night." The next day the Father was on the porch when I came down. He greeted me with a sort of wistful expectancy in his eyes. And my cordial "good morning" did not seem to satisfy him. I did not understand until at breakfast. "My son," he said, "I have often wished—it would have made me very happy—if you had married Margot." So he at least had hoped that this would be the result of my home-coming. "She’s a rare girl," he said, "a fine spirit. A good wife is a great help to a man in leading an upright life. A pillar of strength." "The fates have denied me that help," I said. And I did not realize till too late the pagan form I had given my words. But the match had been lighted. The Father did not believe that any good could come to a man except from the religion of Christ. Try as hard as I might I could not prevent the conversation from taking that turn. If he had loved me less we might have been better friends. But the only thing which mattered to him was the salvation of souls. And in proportion to his love for me he must needs seek my conversion. On the one point where we could not agree, his very affection made him insistent. We both tried very hard to be sweet tempered about it. But I was in a difficult position. If I did not try to answer his arguments he thought I was convinced but unwilling to admit it. If I argued, it angered him. He would lose his temper and then be very apologetic about it. For an hour or so we would talk pleasantly of other things. Then inevitably the conversation would swing back to the subject he cared most about. After supper he at last brought things to a pass from which there was but one escape. "My son," he said, "the day after to-morrow is the first Sunday in the month—Communion Sunday. You are still a member of my church, you have never asked to be relieved of the solemn responsibilities you took when you united with us. Will you join the rest of the members at the communion table?" "I’m sorry, Father," I said, my heart suddenly hardening at the memory of the way I had been pushed into church membership. "I’ll have to leave to-morrow night. I must be back at work early next week."