“In its efficacy, you mean? Why, certainly; otherwise we should all be beyond hope.” “Then let me suppose a case--call it a parable, if you will. There was once a man who was thoroughly bad; quite given over to the service of the Evil One. One day this man saw the error of his way and resolved to live thenceforth a clean life. Then he met and loved a woman”--he paused and got up to pace slowly back and forth behind her chair--“loved her with a love that recked nothing of the great gulf separating him from her; forgetting the gulf, indeed, until the spectre of his evil past was called up to remind him of his unworthiness. Do you follow me?” Her “Yes” was the faintest of whispers, but he heard it and went on. “Judge, then, between that man and an exacting world. Is there any hope for such a one? Would patient perseverance in well-doing some time earn him the right to contend for such a prize as the love of a good woman? Might he venture to look forward to a time when the great gulf would be fairly bridged--when a pure woman, knowing the worst of him, would not turn from him in loathing?” Dorothy rose and faced him with the light of self-sacrifice shining in her eyes. “Who am I that I should judge any one?” she asked softly. “You are yourself, Dorothy; and you know the man--and the woman.” It was a moment of supreme trial. How could she give him the word of encouragement from Isabel without betraying Isabel’s secret? And how could she ever forgive herself if she should waste the opportunity and send him away empty-handed. In her embarrassment she again took counsel of frankness. “It is only the faint-hearted who despair,” she said steadily. “Difficulties are made to be overcome, and for one who presses forward steadfastly there is always hope.” She stopped with the feeling that all these phrasings were but generalities, and he broke in eagerly: “That is enough. You have heard the parable; this is the interpretation. I am the man, Dorothy, and you----” “Are the woman,” he was going to say, but she held up a warning finger, and he heard a step at the door. It was the clergyman returning, and before Brant could add the word to which all the other words had been but the preface his chance was gone. The next moment Dorothy was introducing him to an elderly little man with a kindly face and a hand-clasp that spoke of warm friendships and a broad personality. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brant--always glad to know any friend of Miss Dorothy’s. Sit down--sit down, both of you, and let us be comfortable.” Brant obeyed, but Dorothy hesitated. “I wanted to see you a moment about the Crowleys,” she said. “They are in trouble again, and this time it is beyond me. Mr. Brant wishes to see you about another matter, and if you can give me a minute----”