"The world is surging away from it--the chained mind, the cruelty, the groping in the dark," he said, "as it surged away from the revengeful Israelitish creed of 'eye for eye and tooth for tooth' when Christ came. It has taken centuries to reach, even thus far; but, as each century passed, each human creature who yearned over and suffered with his fellow has been creeping on dragging, bleeding knees towards the light. But the century will never come which will surge away from the Man who died in man's agony for men. In thought of Him one may use reason and needs no faith." The germ of one of the most moving and frequently quoted of Baird's much-discussed discourses sprang--he told his friends afterwards--from one such conversation, and was the outcome of speech of the dead girl Margery. On a black and wet December day he came into his study, on his return from some parish visits, to find Latimer sitting before the fire, staring miserably at something he held in his hand. It was a little daguerrotype of Margery at fifteen. "I found it in an old desk of mine," he said, holding it out to Baird, who took it and slightly turned away to lean against the mantel, as he examined it. The child's large eyes seemed to light up the ugly shadows of the old-fashioned mushroom hat she wore, the soft bow of her mouth was like a little Love's, she bloomed with an angelic innocence, and in her straight sweet look was the unconscious question of a child-woman creature at the dawn of life. John Baird stood looking down at the heavenly, tender little face. There was a rather long silence. During its passing he was far away. He was still far away when at length an exclamation left his lips. He did not hear his words himself--he did not remember Latimer, or notice his quick movement of surprise. "How sweet she was!" he broke forth. "How sweet she was! How sweet!" He put his hand up and touched his forehead with the action of a man in a dream. "Sometimes," he said, low and passionately, "sometimes I am sick with longing for her--_sick_!" "You!" Latimer exclaimed. "_You_ are heart-sick for her!" Baird came back. The startled sound in the voice awoke him. He felt himself, as it were, dragged back from another world, breathless, as by a giant's hand. He looked up, dazed, the hand holding the daguerrotype dropping helplessly by his side. "It is not so strange that it should come to that," he said. "I seem to know her so well. I think," there was a look of sharp pain on his face--"I think I know the pitiful childlike suffering her dying eyes held." And the man actually shuddered a little. "I know it--I know it!" Latimer cried, and he let his forehead drop upon his hands and sat staring at the carpet.