Mr. Kestern pressed his arm. "That will do, Paul," he said. "I want to ask our friend something. The theatre service for the last night of the year is definitely settled, Miss Bishop; will you say a few words?" Miss Bishop did not at once reply. Then: "I hate the place, Vicar," she said; "you know I do. I don't believe in using it. The whole atmosphere reeks of the devil. Last year I could hardly bring myself to go inside." "Perhaps, possibly--but if we can perhaps draw the people there----" "Yes, show them the road in, and maybe they'll go again." "We hope not," said the clergyman meekly, "by the grace of God." She shot a swift glance at him. They were outside her own door now, and the light fell on the kind, gentle face of the man before her. Her sharp face changed a little. "I will speak, Mr. Kestern," she said, "if you wish it." Paul and his father walked on a little in silence. Then the elder sighed. "It's not easy, Paul," he said, "to combine the Master's charity and the Master's zeal." "You do, dad," cried Paul, moved more than a little, and meant it. But as the days sped by, Paul was aware that at every turn he was confronted with a contrast that gradually deepened into something approaching a question. Moving with his father cheerily about the parish; walking the familiar streets with his mother, so absurdly and yet so lovably proud, by his side; stepping again into the round of parochial activities, yet always now, as one who had no permanent place among them; Paul had constantly to check within himself a certain critical outlook that had never been his before. He criticised, too, in more than one direction. There was the incident, for example, of the Christmas decorations at the Mission Hall. Red Turkey twill, as usual, had he and Madeline inserted into the panels of the Commandments and the Lord's Prayer behind the little altar, for a brief while escaping from the domination of their gilt lettering. Ivy tendrils, likewise, had they set twining here and there across them, but, at this orthodox conclusion, Paul had slipped back discontented. "It still looks bare, Madeline," he said. "Let's put a big vase of white chrysanthemums on the ledge behind." "Rather," she said; "that will improve things." They made it two vases and surveyed the result. Madeline shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Of course I'm not high," she said, "but I must say I like flowers on the altar--always." And Paul, looking at her, agreed. But he was still his father's son. "If you don't call it an altar," he said, smiling. Madeline smiled back.