They stood there together a moment longer, under the flecked sunlight filtering through the trees, suddenly brought close again, just as they had been in that dreadful hour when Helen’s weakness made them forget all else. But now the reconciliation went far deeper than it had gone before. Then they had joined hands in ministering to the physical suffering of one they both loved, but now they joined hands over an appreciation not of weakness but of strength. The bond between them was no longer a thing that could easily break. Poles apart as they still were, that golden thread could scarcely be snapped. “I met Helen just now,” said Mr. Challoner at length. “She told me she had seen you, dear girl. She told me also the news from my son. Are you busy? Will you walk with me a little way?” Frank turned at once, and they went on down the steep path towards the rectory. “Have you seen Martin lately?” asked his father. “Yes; I see him constantly in London.” “Then can you tell me about him? _What_ is he? That is the thing I puzzle and pray over. He joined the Roman Church, as you know, at Christmas. I don’t think anything ever pained me more. But I should be very glad to know if he is in earnest about it. Or does he take it as he takes everything else? Do you understand it?” “Yes, I think I do,” said Frank, and paused a moment. “It is this. Martin demands beauty in all that is real to him. That is the ruling instinct in his nature. And, in matters of religion, the Roman Church seemed to him to supply that more than the church he left.” “And it was for that he threw it over?” said Mr. Challoner. “And without regret or struggle even?” “He regretted very sincerely the pain it would give you,” said Frank. Mr. Challoner waved this aside. “That does not matter,” he said. “But otherwise without a regret?” Frank let his silence unmistakably answer that before he went on. “I know you will excuse me,” he said, “but I don’t think you quite realise what Martin is or how the artistic instincts dominate him. Till he fell in love, I don’t think he ever had any very poignant emotion apart from them.” Mr. Challoner’s face got even more grave. “Simply, then,” he said, “he puts them above the love of God. I do not understand how a Christian can do that. And I do not want to understand it,” he added. They had reached the rectory, and Mr. Challoner paused on the terrace walk. “Is he a good boy?” he asked, suddenly. “Morally? Yes, I am sure of it.” “How do you know that?” asked his father. “Because I know his opinion about immorality. He feels very strongly that it must blunt the artistic sense.” Mr. Challoner winced as if in sudden pain. “Ah,” he cried, “is that all? Dear God, is that all?” “The result in the way of conduct is identical,” said Frank, quietly.