Lib had found an envelope in the table downstairs, and she sealed her letter and took it to her father to address, but her father shook his head. “I don’t know, Lib. Uncle Darcy didn’t leave his address. He’s travelling, I reckon. But we’ll send it where he goes sometimes.” And so the letter started on its warning way to Darcy. CHAPTER XXV The winter had come on, introduced by a long and brilliant autumn, and Joyce was so engrossed in her work that she scarcely realized how long it was since she had left Meadow Brook. In addition to her work she had become deeply engrossed in Bible study. In one of her trips to the city she had discovered a Bible School of national renown, and found that she could so arrange her schedule as to make one or two evening classes a week possible. Thereafter when she was not actually busy with her school work, or doing some little helpful thing for somebody else, she could be found studying her Bible. It had become a fascination, this searching for new riches in the Book. She had always enjoyed studying it, but never before with such a hunger for it as came now. Day by day gave her new wonders, a new opening up of the revelation of God to His children. When Professor Harrington asked her to go somewhere with him he frequently found that she had another engagement in the city. Becoming curious, she finally took him to one of her classes, with the result that he entered into a lengthy argument with her all the way home, trying to persuade her to give it up. He informed her that it was ridiculous for her to waste her fine mind being led by men who ignored the simplest principles of science, and pinned their faith to a book that was so old that no one could be sure who wrote it, or where it came from. He told her that a person was a fool to swallow whole the teachings of men who denied geology, zoölogy, science in every branch; who taught that the legends of Scripture were actual truths; and who dared to enter into the occult and profess to have spiritual relations with the Maker of the Universe; who even descended to the ridiculous and marked out the future from the mystical writings of the men they chose to call prophets. When he reached this point Joyce sat up straight in the train, her cheeks glowing, her eyes bright, so that those sitting near must have noticed her, and said: “Stop! I cannot listen to any more of your talk. You and I simply have nothing in common----!” He saw that he had offended her, and sought to make his peace. He apologized and said they would speak of something else, and for the remainder of the half-hour that the late train took in dragging from station to station till it reached Silverton, he made himself most fascinating, telling in his best style of a trip he took to Switzerland the summer before.