It seemed ill payment for the courtesy which had made Harold Wayne forsake the club before supper for the purpose of walking home with her from church. He was unusually kind, too, and patient. Part of her trouble, be it known, was her determination in her heart not to be driven by that dreadful conscience into saying a single personal word to Harold Wayne. Not that she put it in that way; bless you, no! Satan rarely blunders enough to speak out plainly; he has a dozen smooth-sounding phrases that mean the same thing. "People need to be approached very carefully on very special occasions, which are not apt to occur; they need to be approached by just such persons, and in just such well-chosen words," etc. etc. Though why it should require such infinite tact and care and skill to say to a friend, "I wish you were going to heaven with me," when the person would say without the slightest hesitation, "I wish you were going to Europe with me," and be accounted an idiot if he made talk about tact and skill and caution, I am sure I don't know. Yet all these things Ruth said to herself. The reason the thought ruffled her was because her honest conscience knew they were false, and that she had a right to say, "Harold, I _wish_ you were a Christian;" and had no right at all with the results. She simply could not bring herself to say it; she did not really know why, herself; probably Satan did. Mr. Wayne was unusually quiet and grave; he seemed to be doing what he could to lead Ruth into serious talk; he asked about the meeting, whether there were many out, and whether she enjoyed it. "I sort of like Dr. Dennis," he said. "He is tremendously in earnest; but why shouldn't a man be in earnest if he believes what he is talking about. Do you suppose he does, Ruth?" "Of course," Ruth said, shortly, almost crossly; "you know he does. Why do you ask such a foolish question?" "Oh, I don't know; half the time it seems to me as if the religious people were trying to humbug the world; because, you see, they don't act as if they were in dead earnest--very few of them do, at least." "That is a very easy thing to say, and people seem to be fond of saying it," Ruth said: and then she simply would not talk on that subject or any other; she was miserably unhappy; an awakened conscience, toyed with, is a very fruitful source of misery. She was glad when the walk was concluded. "Shall I come in?" Mr. Wayne asked, lingering on the step, half smiling, half wistful. "What do you advise, shall I go back to the club or call on you?"