He still rejoiced in the belief that he was building the foundation of his New Church, which was essentially the Old Church, on the rock of common sense. He was still certain that the Christ of history, the accredited Saviour of mankind, was blessing and consecrating his eager endeavour. He still persuaded himself that his creed was a creed of regeneration, his mission apostolic. He had taken a small house on the borders of Regent’s Park, and not far away from the church which Alma had built for him as a voluntary offering. It was arranged plainly but comfortably, with a touch of the then predominant æstheticism; the decorations tasteful, the furniture mediaeval; but all this was Alma’s doing and, throughout, her choosing. Bradley himself remained unchanged; a strong unpretending man of simple habits, more like an athletic curate in his dress and bearing than like a fashionable preacher. Of course it goes without saying that he was ostracised by the preachers of his own maternal Church, the Church of England; so that he added the consciousness of sweet and painless martyrdom to that of popular success Attacks upon him appeared from time to time in the less important religious journals; but the great organs of the national creed treated him and his performances with silent contempt. He was seated in his study one morning in early summer, reading one of the attacks to which I have just alluded, when Miss Craik was shown in. He sprang up to welcome her, with outstretched hands. ‘I want you to come with me at once,’ she said. ‘Agatha Combe is worse, and I should like you to see her.’ ‘Of course I will come,’ answered Bradley. ‘But I thought she was almost recovered?’ ‘She has had a relapse; not a serious one, I trust, but I am a little alarmed about her. She talks so curiously.’ ‘Indeed!’ ‘Yes; about dying. She says she has a presentiment that she won’t live. Poor Agatha! When _she_ talks like that, it is strange indeed.’ Leaving the house together, Bradley and Alma entered Regent’s Park. Their way lay right across, towards the shady sides of Primrose Hill, where Miss Combe was then residing. The day was fair and sunny, and there was an unusual number of pleasure-seekers and pedestrians in the park. A number of boys were playing cricket on the spaces allotted for that recreation, nursemaids and children were sprinkled everywhere, and near the gate of the Zoological Gardens, which they passed, a brass band was merrily performing. Bradley’s heart was light, and he looked round on the bright scene with a kindling eye, in the full pride of his physical strength and intellectual vigour. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘those teachers are wise who proclaim that health is happiness. What a joyful world it would be if everyone were well and strong.’ ‘Ah yes!’ said his companion. ‘But when sickness comes----’ She sighed heavily, for she was thinking of her friend Agatha Combe.