'But,' added Osborne in an impressive monotone, 'you are equally sure the priest need not fear the advance of modern science?' 'I should not care to generalise on that point.' 'As far as you yourself are concerned?' Parkinson leant forward and sideways until he could lean his elbow on the chair and rest his head upon his elbow. His eyes were no longer fixed on Osborne, but turned on some old scene, some distant apparition. He spoke in a subdued voice,-- 'In my time I have had my share of trouble, my share of shocks and alarms; but all put together never equalled the awful hour when, having pursued a certain inquiry to a certain point, I raised my eyes and saw the priest, with the Bible under his arm, make his final exit from the stage of my life.' Osborne dropped his eyes, drew his eyebrows down over them, and fell back in his chair. There was silence for a few minutes. Then Osborne spoke,-- 'You will lend me those books you allude to?' 'Yes, if you wish. I recommend you, for your peace's sake, not to read them.' 'It is, for my peace's sake I intend reading them,' answered Osborne. 'In what way can they help you to peace?' 'Because--because,' said Osborne laboriously, 'I have had some doubts, which are now at rest, and I desire to lay them at rest for ever.' 'The books I allude to will not help any existing creed in your regard.' 'So long as I think there are any books can injure it, I am not fit to believe my faith. You cannot be a Christian and believe that anything can injure or destroy the truth of Christianity.' 'Very well. You shall have the books.' After this there was silence for a few minutes more. Someone touched a piano. The introduction reached the room, softened by distance, but every note was perfectly clear. 'Are you fond of music?' asked Parkinson. 'Exceedingly.' 'Then I will open the door. This is a great favourite of mine.' He opened the door, came back, and threw himself into his chair. Presently the round, full, surprising tones of a contralto came upon their ears, followed by the low wail of the piano. The two men sat upright in their chairs, and stared into one another's eyes with amazement. Between the first and second stanza Parkinson spoke,-- 'By heaven, sir, what a voice!' 'I never heard anything like it before. It is superb.' Again the glorious organ floated out upon the silence, followed by the wail of the piano. While she sang the men stared at one another with astonishment, such as would have become their faces if the walls had vanished, and they saw before them the sacred city of Jerusalem under a pall of clouds flushed with portents. Another interval. 'Did you ever hear pathos so sublimely phrased before?' 'Never,' answered Osborne. The tears were starting into his eyes. In Parkinson's eyes gleamed a terrible, wild sadness, as though he, bound, witnessed cruel tortures inflicted on those dearest to him. Another interval. 'Did you ever hear God so importuned for mercy before?'