"It is good to feel like that sometimes," she answered; "but it is well, I think, not to get into the way of _inducing_ such feelings. The human brain is such a sensitive thing that one can get into the way of drugging it with emotion, as it were. I think I am tinged a little with the North-country spirit. I always think of Newman's wonderful lines-- "'The thoughts control that o'er thee swell and throng; They will condense within the soul and turn to purpose strong. But he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every blow.' "I only quote from memory. But you look tired, dear boy; you are rather white. Have you been overworking?" He did not answer immediately. "No," he said slowly, "but I've been having a long talk with the vicar. We were talking about Mr. Schuabe and his influence. Helena, that man is the most active of God's enemies in England. Almost when I was mentioning his name, by some coincidence, or perhaps for some deeper, more mysterious, psychical reason which men do not yet understand, the maid announced him. He had come to see your father on business, and--don't think I am unduly fanciful--the Murillo photograph, the head of Christ, on the mantel-shelf, fell down and was broken. He is here still, I think." "Yes," said Helena; "Mr. Schuabe is in the study with father. But, Basil dear, it's quite evident to me that you've been doing too much. Do you know that I look upon Mr. Schuabe as a really _good_ man! I have often thought about him, and even prayed that he may learn the truth; but God has many instruments. Mr. Schuabe is sincere in his unbelief. His life and all his actions are for the good of others. It is terrible--it is deplorable--to know he attacks Christianity; but he is tolerant and large-minded also. Yes, I should call him a good man. He will come to God some day. God would not have given him such power over the minds and bodies of men otherwise." Gortre smiled a little sadly,--a rather wan smile, which sat strangely upon his strong and hearty face--, but he said no more. He knew that his attitude was illogical, perhaps it could be called bigoted and intolerant--a harsh indictment in these easy, latitudinarian days; but his conviction was an intuition. It came from within, from something outside or beyond his reason, and would not be stifled. "Well, dear," he said, "perhaps it is as you say. Nerves which are overwrought, and a system which is run down, certainly have their say, and a large say, too, in one's attitude towards any one. Now you must go to bed. I will go down and say good-night to the rector and Mr. Schuabe--just to show there's no ill-feeling; though, goodness knows, I oughtn't to jest about the man. Good-night, sweet one; God bless you. Remember me also in your prayers to-night."