Mat, on the other hand, had no such scruples.  She was more like Esther in nature, with a touch of cynicism curling her dainty lip, arising, perhaps, from an early divination that she was to lack Esther’s opportunities.  Perhaps it was because she was the pessimist—­the quite cheerful pessimist—­of the family, that she was by far the cleverest and most industrious at the housework.  If it was her fate to be Cinderella, she might as well make the best of it, with a cynical endurance and good-humour, and be Cinderella with a good grace.  Probably the only glass slipper in the family had already fallen to Esther.  Never mind, though her good looks might fade with being a good girl at home, year by year, what did it matter, after all?  Nothing mattered in the end.  And thus, out of a great indifference, Mat developed a great unselfishness; and if you could name one special angel in the house of the Mesuriers, she was unmistakably Mat.

In addition to her religious promptings, Dot had lately developed a great sympathy for her father.  Standing a little aside from the conflict between him and Henry, she was able to divine something of the feelings of both; and she had now and again caught a look of loneliness on her father’s face that made her ready to do almost anything to please him.

Of course the question was one for general consultation.  She knew what Henry would say.  It didn’t much matter anyhow, he would say, but it was a pity.  How was intellectual freedom to be won, if those who had seen the light should thus deliberately forego it, time after time, from such merely sentimental reasons?  And when she saw Henry, that was just what he did say.

“But,” she said, “it would make father so happy.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered; “and it would be very beautiful of you.  Besides, of course, in one way it’s only a matter of symbolism; but then, on the other hand, it’s symbolism hardened into dogmatism that has done all the mischief.  Do it, dear, if you like; I hardly know what to say.  As you say, it will make father happy, and I shall quite understand.”

Dot was one of those natures that like to seek, and are liable to take, advice; so, after seeing Henry, she thought she would see what Mr. Trotter had to say; for, in spite of his unfortunate name, Mr. Trotter was a gentle, cultivated mind, and was indeed somewhat incongruously, perhaps in a mild way Jesuitically, circumstanced as a Baptist minister.  Henry and he were great friends on literary matters; and Dot and he had had many talks, greatly helpful to her, on spiritual things.  In fact, Chrysostom Trotter was one of those numerous half-way men between the old beliefs and their new modifications, which the continuous advance of scientific discovery and philosophical speculation on the one hand, and the obstinate survival of Christianity on the other, necessitate—­if men of spiritual intuitions who are not poets and artists are to earn their living.  There was nothing