"Well, and if he were, doubtless it was for some youthful folly--debt, or the like. Now he has came into his property, he will sow his wild oats and become perfectly respectable." "I hope so--I sincerely hope so," said Dr. Grey, not without a trace of agitation in his manner deeper than the occasion seemed to warrant. "But, in the meantime, he is not the sort of person whom I should wish the ladies of my family to have among their visiting acquaintance." The argument had now waxed so warm that both parties forgot, or appeared to forget Christian, who sat silent, listening to it all--listening with a kind of wondering eagerness as to what her husband would say--her husband, a man in every way the very opposite of this man--Sir Edwin Uniacke. How would he feel about him? how judge him? Or how much had he known him to judge him by? On this last head Dr. Grey was impenetrable, he parried, Or gave vague general replies to all Miss Gascoigne's questions. She gained nothing except the firm, decided answer, "I will not have Sir Edwin Uniacke visiting at the Lodge." "But why not?" insisted Miss Gascoigne, roused by opposition into greater obstinacy. "Did we not meet him at the vice chancellor's? And he told me of two or three houses where we should be sure to meet him again next week." "I can not help that, but in my own house I choose my own society." "Your reasons?" insisted Miss Gascoigne, now seriously angry. "It is unfair to act so oddly--I must say so ridiculously, without giving a reason." Dr. Grey paused a moment, and seemed to ponder before he answered. "My reason, so far as I can state it, is, that this young man holds, and puts into open practice, opinions which I wholly condemn, and consider unworthy of a Christian, an honest man, or even a decent member of society." "And, pray, what are they?" "It is difficult to explain them to a woman. Do not think me hard," he added, and his eyes wandered round to his wife, though he still addressed only his sister. "A man may fail and rise again--and we know Who pitied and helped to raise all fallen sinners. But sin itself never ceases to be sin; and, while impenitent, can neither be forgiven nor blotted out. If a man or a woman--there is no difference--came to me and said, 'I have erred, but I mean to err no more,' I hope I would never shut my door against either; I would help, and comfort, and save both, in every possible way. But a man who continues in sin, hugs it, loves it, calls it by all manner of fine names, and makes excuses for it after the fashion of the world--the world may act as it chooses toward him, but there is only one way in which I can act." "And what is that?" asked Miss Gascoigne, in astonishing meekness.