called by the name, to whom he will say, I never knew you: go forth into the outer darkness. Then at least will the church be rid of you, and the honest doubter will have room to breathe the divine air of the presence of Jesus. “But oh what unspeakable bliss of heart and soul and mind and sense remains for him who like St. Paul is crucified with Christ, who lives no more from his own self, but is inspired and informed and possessed with the same faith towards the Father in which Jesus lived and wrought the will of the Father! If the words attributed to Jesus are indeed the words of him whom Jesus declared himself, then truly is the fate of mankind a glorious one,--and that, first and last, because men have a God supremely grand, all-perfect in God-head; for that is, and that alone can be, the absolute bliss of the created.” CHAPTER XXX. HELEN AWAKE. That Sunday-dinner was a very quiet meal. An old friend of Mrs. Ramshorn, a lady-ecclesiastic like herself, dined with them; what the two may have said to each other in secret conclave, I cannot tell, but not a word of remark upon Mr. Wingfold or his sermon was heard at table. As she was leaving the room, Bascombe whispered Helen to put on something and come to him in the garden. Helen glanced at the window as if doubtful. It was cold, but the sun was shining; the weather had nothing to do with it; she had but taken a moment to think. She pressed her lips together--and consented. George saw she would rather not go, but he set it down to a sisterly unwillingness to enjoy herself when her brother could no longer behold the sun, and such mere sentiment must not be encouraged. When the cypresses and box-trees had come betwixt them and the house, he offered his arm, but Helen preferred being free. She did not refuse to go into the summer-house with him; but she took her place on the opposite side of the little table. George however spied no hint of approaching doom. “I am sorry to have to alter my opinion of that curate,” he said as he seated himself. “There was so much in him that I took to promise well. But old habit, the necessities of existence, and the fear of society have been too much for him--as they will always be for most men. He has succumbed at last, and I am sorry! I did think he was going to turn out an honest man!” “And you have come to the certain conclusion that he is not an honest man, George?” “Assuredly.” “Why?” “Because he goes on to teach what he confesses he is not sure about.” “He professes to be sure that it is better than anything he is sure about.--You teach me there is no God: are you absolutely certain there is not?” “Yes; absolutely certain.” “On what grounds?” “On grounds I have set forth to you twenty times, Helen, dear,” answered George a little impatiently. “I am not inclined to talk about them now.--I can no more believe in a god than in a dragon.”