“My theory leaves plenty of difficulty, but has no such fault as that. Why, what sort of a God would content you, Mr. Faber? The one idea is too bad, the other too good to be true. Must you expand and pare until you get one exactly to the measure of yourself ere you can accept it as thinkable or possible? Why, a less God than that would not rest your soul a week. The only possibility of believing in a God seems to me to lie in finding an idea of a God large enough, grand enough, pure enough, lovely enough to be fit to believe in.” “And have you found such--may I ask?” “I think I am finding such.” “Where?” “In the man of the New Testament. I have thought a little more about these things, I fancy, than you have, Mr. Faber. I may come to be sure of something; I don’t see how a man can ever be sure of NOTHING.” “Don’t suppose me quite dumbfoundered, though I can’t answer you off hand,” said Mr. Faber, as they reached his door.--“Come in with me, and I will make up the medicine myself; it will save time. There are a thousand difficulties,” he resumed in the surgery, “some of them springing from peculiar points that come before one of my profession, which I doubt if you would be able to meet so readily. But about this poor fellow, Lingard. You know Glaston gossip says he is out of his mind.” “If I were you, Mr. Faber, I would not take pains to contradict it. He is not out of his mind, but has such trouble in it as might well drive him out.--Don’t you even hint at that, though.” “I understand,” said Faber. “If doctor and minister did understand each other and work together,” said Wingfold, “I fancy a good deal more might be done.” “I don’t doubt it.--What sort of fellow is that cousin of theirs--Bascombe is his name, I believe?” “A man to suit you, I should think,” said the curate; “a man with a most tremendous power of believing in nothing.” “Come, come!” returned the doctor, “you don’t know half enough about me to tell what sort of man I should like or dislike.” “Well, all I will say more of Bascombe is, that if he were not conceited he would be honest; and if he were as honest as he believes himself, he would not be so ready to judge every one dishonest who does not agree with him.” “I hope we may have another talk soon,” said the doctor, searching for a cork. “Some day I will tell you a few things that may stagger you.” “Likely enough: I am only learning to walk yet,” said Wingfold. “But a man may stagger and not fall, and I am ready to hear anything you choose to tell me.” Faber handed him the bottle, and he took his leave. CHAPTER VII. HELEN AND THE CURATE.