“You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their unemotional fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and wear mourning for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? I cannot pray in the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are closed against me. It is of their religion to do so. They believe that the 'bread of the Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. We can only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, and the love of those who are Samaritans at heart.” “If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should presume to judge you.” “They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said Clytie, with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its secrets I give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in accordance with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” And then she added in a low voice: “You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you would accept it.” Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her. “I accept far too much in my selfishness,” he said. “My old lonely life was happy, but it could not be so again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I say, Stay with me.” “I should stay whatever you said,” returned Clytie. “Don't fancy that all the giving is on my side.” One sad event marked the mid-time in these two years, robbing Clytie of an external interest that had grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack died. The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in her husband's house was in the studio, whither he had betaken himself on one of his frequent visits to Winifred. A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's heart as she marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in miniature on the boy's face. It only lasted a few moments, and then it melted away into a great pity. Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times his father. That he was so parented should make her pity for him all the greater. She never felt more drawn towards the boy than in that first interview. She told no one but Kent of the secret of his parentage, not even Winifred, to whom Jack, in spite of full intentions, never had an opportunity of showing the photograph. For Mrs. Bur-mester having discovered that Jack had temporarily abstracted it, had cuffed him soundly and secreted the coveted treasure in a secure hiding-place.