"So you admit you are quit of it? You turn your back on your father's and mother's faith? You have no use for the Scripture of Truth?" The boy might, in a saner moment, have caught the tone of invincible bigotry that had crept into his father's words. "Of course I've use for it," retorted Paul again, contemptuously. "Haven't I written a play under its inspiration? But I must make my own judgment on religion." Mr. Kestern sobered suddenly and terribly. He spoke biting words with slow deliberation. "You must, sir," he said, "only it is blasphemy to speak so of inspiration. And you will be good enough to tell me what is your judgment on the Master Who alone is served in this house." Paul gazed at him a minute. Phrases rose to his lips. Then he realised how useless they would be. His anger died as quickly as it had arisen. "You would not understand," he said hopelessly. "I know I have not the new learning of my son," retorted Mr. Kestern bitterly, "but I think I can understand that much. Will you answer a plain question? Are you still on the Lord's side, or not?" "Of course he is," wept Mrs. Kestern. "Father, how can you ask? Speak, Paul, and tell him you still love and serve the Lord Jesus?" Mr. Kestern studied his son's face. "Speak, then," he said slowly. Paul hesitated. Then he drew himself up. "I love and respect and admire Jesus of Nazareth with all my heart," he said. "His teaching it is that has opened my eyes, and his gospel of compassion and brotherliness is as noble as any that the world has yet heard. But I cannot call him God as you do, and as Catholics do." The anger died in Mr. Kestern's face. The look of an old and broken man crept into it. He turned back to his desk and picked up his Bible. "Do you perhaps remember what this says?" he demanded. "Listen." (He fumbled with the leaves.) "'He that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God, and this is the spirit of antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is it in the world.'" The words lingered in the little room. The three of them, each in his or her own way, quailed before the stark decisiveness of them. Mrs. Kestern it was who first could bear it no longer. "Father, he is your son," she cried. "Nothing can alter that!"