"Aren't you thinking only of the people who may be hurt--or scandalized? But after all, there they are in the Church, with all its privileges and opportunities--with everything they want. They are not asked to give anything up--nobody thinks of interfering with them--they have all the old dear things, the faiths and the practices they love--and that help _them_. They are only asked to tolerate other people who want different things. Mr. Meynell stands--I suppose--for the people--who are starved, whose souls wither, or die, for lack of the only food that could nourish them." "'I am the bread of life,'" said Catharine with an energy that shook her slight frame. "The Church has no other food to give. Let those who refuse it go outside. There are other bodies, and other means." "But, mother, this is the _National_ Church!" pleaded Mary, after a moment. "The Modernists too say--don't they?--that Christ--or what Christ stands for--is the bread of life. Only they understand the words--differently from you. And if"--she came closer to her mother, and putting her hands on Catharine's knees, she looked up into the elder woman's face--"if there were only a few here and there, they could of course do nothing; they could only suffer, and be silent. But there are so many of them--so many! What is the 'Church' but the living souls that make it up? And now thousands of these living souls want to change things in the Church. Their consciences are hurt--they can't believe what they once believed. What is the justice of driving them out--or leaving them starved--forever? They were born in the Church; baptized in the Church! They love the old ways, the old buildings, the old traditions. 'Comfort our consciences!' they say; 'we will never tyrannize over yours. Give us the teaching and the expression we want; you will always have what you want! Make room for us--beside you. If your own faith is strong it will only be the stronger because you let ours speak and live--because you give us our bare rights, as free spirits, in this Church that belongs to the whole English people.' Dear mother, you are so just always--so loving--doesn't that touch you--doesn't it move you--at all?" The girl's charming face had grown pale. So had Catharine's. "This, I suppose, is what you have heard Mr. Meynell say," she answered slowly. Mary turned away, shading her eyes with her hand. "Yes," she said, with shrinking; "at least I know it is what he would say." "Oh, Mary, I wish we had never come here!" It was a cry of bitterness, almost of despair. Mary turned and threw her arms round the speaker's neck. "I will never hurt you, my beloved! you know I won't." The two gazed into each other's eyes, questions and answers, unspoken yet understood, passing between them. Then Catharine disengaged herself, rose, and went away.