The Rector slowly raised himself. An expression as of some passion within, trying at once to check and to utter itself, became visible on his face in the half light. "It's not books that settle it, Jim. I'll try and put it to you--just as I see it myself--just in the way it comes to me." He paused a moment, frowning under the effort of simplification. The hidden need of the dying man seemed to be mysteriously conveyed to him--the pang of lonely anguish that death brings with it; the craving for comfort beneath the apparent scorn of faith; the human cry expressed in this strange catechism. "Stop me if I tire you," he said at last. "I don't know if I can make it plain--but to me, Bateson, there are two worlds that every man is concerned with. There is this world of everyday life--work and business, sleeping and talking, eating and drinking--that you and I have been living in; and there is another world, within it, and alongside of it, that we know when we are quiet--when we listen to our own hearts, and follow that voice I spoke of just now. Jesus Christ called that other world the Kingdom of God--and those who dwell in it, the children of God. Love is the king of that world, and the law of it--Love, which _is_ God. But different men--different races of men--give different names to that Love--see it under different shapes. To us--to you and to me--it speaks under the name and form of Jesus Christ. And so I come to say--so all Christians come to say--_'I believe--in Jesus Christ our Lord_'. For it is His life and His death that still to-day--as they have done for hundreds of years--draw men and women into the Kingdom--the Kingdom of Love--and so to God. He draws us to love--and so to God. And in God alone is the soul of man satisfied; _satisfied--and at rest_." The last words were but just breathed--yet they carried with them the whole force of a man. "That's all very well, Rector. But tha's given up th' Athanasian Creed, and there's mony as says tha doesn't hold by tother Creeds. Wilt tha tell _me_, as Jesus were born of a virgin?--or that a got up out o' the grave on the third day?" The Rector's face, through all its harass, softened tenderly. "If you were a well man, Bateson, we'd talk of that. But there's only one thing that matters to you now--it's to feel God with you--to be giving your soul to God." The two men gazed at each other. "What are tha nursin' me for, Rector?" said Bateson, abruptly--"I'm nowt to you." "For the love of Christ," said Meynell, steadily, taking his hand--"and of you, in Christ. But you mustn't talk. Rest a while." There was a silence. The July night was beginning to pale into dawn. Outside, beyond the nearer fields, the wheels and sheds and the two great chimneys of the colliery were becoming plain; the tints and substance of the hills were changing. Dim forms of cattle moved in the newly shorn grass; the sound of their chewing could be faintly heard. Suddenly the dying man raised himself in bed.