"I cannot _prove_ it, it is true, but I must judge of the state of your heart on Sundays, by what I see of your life on week-days. Now, I see no Christ there." "I believe the Father judges me more leniently than you do. He finds no fault with my worship." "Does He not? Read what is said in prophecy and afterwards repeated by Christ, of those who worship God with the lips while the heart is far from Him." "While my outward life is spotless I am not afraid of my heart's not keeping step with it. Besides, there is nothing malicious, or unkind, or severe in my heart, that God should look upon with displeasure. It is not mere sentiment He wants. He wants a good, honest, manly life, and that He gets from me." "If He gets from you all He wants, why does He declare you must be born again?" "I know most men need regeneration, but I feel no need of any such change, and never did." "My dear brother," said Mrs. Grey, with difficulty suppressing her tears, "I see that further argument is useless. You are living for yourself and not for Christ, though He has died for you. You are training your sons to outward morality like your own. But all your souls are in jeopardy. There are those who have gone far beyond you; they have prophesied in Christ's name; cast out devils in His name; done many wonderful works in His name; and He has said, 'I never knew you; depart from me, ye that work iniquity.'" "At any rate," he returned, "you are religious enough to satisfy the most exacting Being possible. If I fail to enter heaven through my good works, I can plead yours." "Mine!" she cried. "There isn't one on record!" "Oh, if it pleases you to take that view of your life, well and good! It seems to be a part of your creed to believe yourself a sinner." "It is, indeed, my creed," she replied, "and I find that creed in the Word of God. One ray from it darting through your soul would reveal to you depths of evil of which you are now unconscious." "'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,'" he said, smilingly, and rose to go. Defeated and grieved, Mrs. Grey went to the Refuge of her soul, to plead once more on behalf of this deluded man. But for a time "He answered her never a word." CHAPTER XIX. Christmas came upon Greylock before they were quite ready for it; it seemed to come earlier every year. Margaret had worked very hard to get a picture done for each of the grown folks, and though she had undoubted genius, and wrote poetry with her artistic brush, of course her work was more or less crude.