He spoke in a low, calm voice, yet Laura knew well that his life was poured into each word. She herself did not, could not, speak. But it seemed to her strangely that some spring within her was broken--some great decision had been taken, by whom she could not tell. He looked with alarm at her pallor and silence. "Laura, those are the hard and awful--to us Catholics, the majestic--facts on which our religion stands. Accept them, and nothing else is really difficult. Miracles, the protection of the saints, the mysteries of the sacraments, the place that Catholics give to Our Lady, the support of an infallible Church--what so easy and natural if _these_ be true?... Sin and its Divine Victim, penance, regulation of life, death, judgment--Catholic thought moves perpetually from one of these ideas to another. As to many other thoughts and beliefs, it is free to us as to other men to take or leave, to think or not to think. The Church, like a tender mother, offers to her children an innumerable variety of holy aids, consolations, encouragements. These may or may not be of faith. The Crucifix _is_ the Catholic Faith. In that the Catholic sees the Love that brought a God to die, the Sin that infects his own soul. To requite that love, to purge that sin there lies the whole task of the Catholic life." He broke off again, anxiously studying the drooping face so near to him. Then gently he put his arm round her, and drew her to him till her brow rested against his shoulder. "Laura, does it seem very hard--very awful--to you?" She moved imperceptibly, but she did not speak. "It may well. The way _is_ strait! But, Laura, you see it from without--I from within. Won't you take my word for the sweetness, the reward, and the mercifulness of God's dealings with our souls?" He drew a long agitated breath. "Take my own case--take our love. You remember, Laura, when you sat here on Easter Sunday? I came from Communion and I found you here. You disliked and despised my faith and me. But as you sat here, I loved you--my eyes were first opened. The night of the dance, when you went upstairs, I took my own heart and offered it. You did not love me then: how could I dream you ever would? The sacrifice was mine; I tried to yield it. But it was not His will. I made my struggle--you made yours. He drew us to each other. Then----" He faltered, looked down upon her in doubt.