She and Mrs. Puckridge went together, and Faber, calling soon after, found the door locked.  He saw the gathering in the park, however, had heard something about the ceremony, concluded they were assisting, and, after a little questioning with himself, led his horse to the gate, made fast the reins to it, went in, and approached the little assembly.  Ere he reached it, he saw them kneel, whereupon he made a circuit and got behind a tree, for he would not willingly seem rude, and he dared not be hypocritical.  Thence he descried Juliet kneeling with the rest, and could not help being rather annoyed.  Neither could he help being a little struck with the unusual kind of prayer the curate was making; for he spoke as to the God of workmen, the God of invention and creation, who made the hearts of his creatures so like his own that they must build and make.

When the observance was over, and the people were scattering in groups, till they should be summoned to the repast prepared for them, the rector caught sight of the doctor, and went to him.

“Ha, Faber!” he cried, holding out his hand, “this is kind of you!  I should hardly have expected you to be present on such an occasion!”

“I hoped my presence would not offend you,” answered the doctor.  “I did not presume to come closer than just within earshot of your devotions.  Neither must you think me unfriendly for keeping aloof.”

“Certainly not.  I would not have you guilty of irreverence.”

“That could hardly be, if I recognized no presence.”

“There was at least,” rejoined Mr. Bevis, “the presence of a good many of your neighbors, to whom you never fail to recognize your duty, and that is the second half of religion:  would it not have showed want of reverence toward them, to bring an unsympathetic presence into the midst of their devotion?”

“That I grant,” said the doctor.

“But it may be,” said the curate, who had come up while they talked, “that what you, perhaps justifiably, refuse to recognize as irreverence, has its root in some fault of which you are not yet aware.”

“Then I’m not to blame for it,” said Faber quietly.

“But you might be terribly the loser by it.”

“That is, you mean, if there should be One to whom reverence is due?”

“Yes.”

“Would that be fair, then—­in an All-wise, that is, toward an ignorant being?”

“I think not.  Therefore I look for something to reveal it to you.  But, although I dare not say you are to blame, because that would be to take upon myself the office of a judge, which is God’s alone, He only being able to give fair play, I would yet have you search yourself, and see whether you may not come upon something which keeps you from giving full and honest attention to what some people, as honest as yourself, think they see true.  I am speaking only from my knowledge of myself, and the conviction that we are all much alike.  What if you should discover that you do not really and absolutely disbelieve in a God?—­that the human nature is not capable of such a disbelief?—­that your unbelief has been only indifference and irreverence—­and that to a Being grander and nobler and fairer than human heart can conceive?”