His voice broke a little. Father Vassall dropped his knees and jumped up, catching his robe about him. His eyes shone, though his face was grave. "L-look here," he said. "Here's a bit of paper. I'll put here all the things that make for the Church, unless you feel honestly, in your own mind, that the balance of evidence on a point puts it on the other side. Now." When the paper was written it appeared thus: WHICH is TRUE? _R.C._ _Anglican._ Emotions in Catholic Church. Emotions at Claxted, Keswick, etc. Reason? History? Which Works? Scripture? Tradition? Catholic Idea? Consistency? Gospel of the Poor? Beauty? Common sense? Miracles? Peter? (After the first, Paul had objected: "But Christianity may not be reasonable at all." "T-t-that hardly makes for Anglicanism," retorted Father Vassall. "Is _it_, the Via Media, reasonable?" And Paul had been silent thereafter.) "That's enough, Father," said Paul, in a still voice. "It is, only this." (He added, last on the list--Peter.) "Now, here you are. To-morrow, after breakfast, go into the chapel, put this before you, and pray. Pray. PRAY. Hear? I'll say no more, now or ever. You're alone, you know, you must be.... If it's 'yes,' after that, come and tell me, and I'll get the faculties and receive you. If it's 'no,' then don't say anything. Just 'good-bye.' And G-God bless you, anyway." He had his way. The boy went almost silently to bed, heard Mass, ate breakfast quietly, went into the chapel, and knelt down. He propped his papers before him. He chose to kneel before the red lamp. He read his paper, but he could not think. Confused images buzzed through his head, and voices. "I'd rather see a son of mine dead," said Mr. Kestern. "God is very far off," said Childers. "He was deluded by Satan," said David Etheridge. "Oh, don't break your father's heart, Paul," cried his mother. "Concubinage is a regular thing in Spain," said the Bishop of Mozambique. "Christ is the most arresting figure in history," said Manning coolly. "He's a j-j-jealous God," said Father Vassall. Paul shut his eyes. He was so tired. He turned deliberately away and thought of Edith. He remembered Hursley Woods, and the little brown cap, and the brown leaves, and the blue sky. A thrush, too, that looked at them out of beady eyes. And here he was, in a Popish chapel, Father Vassall's chapel.