“If you tell me on your word of honour that there is no woman in the case, or no particular programme of sin you propose to work out, I shall believe you. But it is an old story, as you say.” “I swear to you there is not,” cried the other. “Thank God then!” said Percy. “There are fewer obstacles to a return of faith.” There was silence for a moment after that. Percy had really no more to say. He had talked to him of the inner life again and again, in which verities are seen to be true, and acts of faith are ratified; he had urged prayer and humility till he was almost weary of the names; and had been met by the retort that this was to advise sheer self-hypnotism; and he had despaired of making clear to one who did not see it for himself that while Love and Faith may be called self-hypnotism from one angle, yet from another they are as much realities as, for example, artistic faculties, and need similar cultivation; that they produce a conviction that they are convictions, that they handle and taste things which when handled and tasted are overwhelmingly more real and objective than the things of sense. Evidences seemed to mean nothing to this man. So he was silent now, chilled himself by the presence of this crisis, looking unseeingly out upon the plain, little old-world parlour, its tall window, its strip of matting, conscious chiefly of the dreary hopelessness of this human brother of his who had eyes but did not see, ears and was deaf. He wished he would say good-bye, and go. There was no more to be done. Father Francis, who had been sitting in a lax kind of huddle, seemed to know his thoughts, and sat up suddenly. “You are tired of me,” he said. “I will go.” “I am not tired of you, my dear father,” said Percy simply. “I am only terribly sorry. You see I know that it is all true.” The other looked at him heavily. “And I know that it is not,” he said. “It is very beautiful; I wish I could believe it. I don’t think I shall be ever happy again--but--but there it is.” Percy sighed. He had told him so often that the heart is as divine a gift as the mind, and that to neglect it in the search for God is to seek ruin, but this priest had scarcely seen the application to himself. He had answered with the old psychological arguments that the suggestions of education accounted for everything. “I suppose you will cast me off,” said the other. “It is you who are leaving me,” said Percy. “I cannot follow, if you mean that.” “But--but cannot we be friends?” A sudden heat touched the elder priest’s heart. “Friends?” he said. “Is sentimentality all you mean by friendship? What kind of friends can we be?” The other’s face became suddenly heavy. “I thought so.” “John!” cried Percy. “You see that, do you not? How can we pretend anything when you do not believe in God? For I do you the honour of thinking that you do not.” Francis sprang up. “Well---” he snapped. “I could not have believed--I am going.” He wheeled towards the door.