“For some months now,” he said, “there have been new forces at work in my mind. I have been invaded by strange doubts and still stranger realizations. This old church of ours is an empty mask. God is not specially concerned in it.” “Edward!” she cried, “what are you saying?” “I have been hesitating to tell you. But I see now I must tell you plainly. Our church is a cast hull. It is like the empty skin of a snake. God has gone out of it.” She rose to her feet. She was so horrified that she staggered backward, pushing her chair behind her. “But you are mad,” she said. He was astonished at her distress. He stood up also. “My dear,” he said, “I can assure you I am not mad. I should have prepared you, I know....” She looked at him wild-eyed. Then she glanced at the phial, gripped in her hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and going swiftly to the window emptied out the contents of the little bottle. He realized what she was doing too late to prevent her. “Don't waste that!” he cried, and stepping forward caught hold of her wrist. The phial fell from her white fingers, and crashed upon the rough paved garden path below. “My dear,” he cried, “my dear. You do not understand.” They stood face to face. “It was a tonic,” he said. “I have been ill. I need it.” “It is a drug,” she answered. “You have been uttering blasphemies.” He dropped her arm and walked half-way across the room. Then he turned and faced her. “They are not blasphemies,” he said. “But I ought not to have surprised you and shocked you as I have done. I want to tell you of changes that have happened to my mind.” “Now!” she exclaimed, and then: “I will not hear them now. Until you are better. Until these fumes--” Her manner changed. “Oh, Edward!” she cried, “why have you done this? Why have you taken things secretly? I know you have been sleepless, but I have been so ready to help you. I have been willing--you know I have been willing--for any help. My life is all to be of use to you....” “Is there any reason,” she pleaded, “why you should have hidden things from me?” He stood remorseful and distressed. “I should have talked to you,” he said lamely. “Edward,” she said, laying her hands on his shoulders, “will you do one thing for me? Will you try to eat a little breakfast? And stay here? I will go down to Mr. Whippham and arrange whatever is urgent with him. Perhaps if you rest--There is nothing really imperative until the confirmation in the afternoon.... I do not understand all this. For some time--I have felt it was going on. But of that we can talk. The thing now is that people should not know, that nothing should be seen.... Suppose for instance that horrible White Blackbird were to hear of it.... I implore you. If you rest here--And if I were to send for that young doctor who attended Miriam.” “I don't want a doctor,” said the bishop. “But you ought to have a doctor.” “I won't have a doctor,” said the bishop.