“If it be so, let Him punish me,” said the doctor gravely.

“If it be so, He will,” said the curate solemnly, “—­and you will thank Him for it—­after a while.  The God of my belief is too good not to make Himself known to a man who loves what is fair and honest, as you do.”

The doctor was silent.

While they were talking thus, two ladies had left the others and now approached them—­Mrs. Wingfold and Miss Meredith.  They had heard the last few sentences, and seeing two clergymen against one infidel, hastened with the generosity of women to render him what aid they might.

“I am sure Mr. Faber is honest,” said Helen.

“That is much to say for any man,” returned the curate.

“If any man is, then,” adjected Juliet.

“That is a great If,” rejoined Wingfold.”—­Are you honest, Helen?” he added, turning to his wife.

“No,” she answered; “but I am honester than I was a year ago.”

“So am I,” said her husband; “and I hope to be honester yet before another is over.  It’s a big thing to say, I am honest.”

Juliet was silent, and Helen, who was much interested with her, turned to see how she was taking it.  Her lips were as white as her face.  Helen attributed the change to anger, and was silent also.  The same moment the rector moved toward the place where the luncheon-tables were, and they all accompanied him, Helen still walking, in a little anxiety, by Juliet’s side.  It was some minutes before the color came back to her lips; but when Helen next addressed her, she answered as gently and sweetly as if the silence had been nothing but an ordinary one.

“You will stay and lunch with us, Mr. Faber?” said the rector.  “There can be no hypocrisy in that—­eh?”

“Thank you,” returned the doctor heartily; “but my work is waiting me, and we all agree that must be done, whatever our opinions as to the ground of the obligation.”

“And no man can say you don’t do it,” rejoined the curate kindly.  “That’s one thing we do agree in, as you say:  let us hold by it, Faber, and keep as good friends as we can, till we grow better ones.”

Faber could not quite match the curate in plain speaking:  the pupil was not up with his master yet.

“Thank you, Wingfold,” he returned, and his voice was not free of emotion, though Juliet alone felt the tremble of the one vibrating thread in it. “—­Miss Meredith,” he went on, turning to her, “I have heard of something that perhaps may suit you:  will you allow me to call in the evening, and talk it over with you?”

“Please do,” responded Juliet eagerly.  “Come before post-time if you can.  It may be necessary to write.”

“I will.  Good morning.”

He made a general bow to the company and walked away, cutting off the heads of the dandelions with his whip as he went.  All followed with their eyes his firm, graceful figure, as he strode over the grass in his riding-boots and spurs.