speak of herself and the reasons which had suggested an abandonment of her stage career.  The tender, impersonal kindness of the priest drew her out of herself, and she told him how she had begun to perceive that the stage had ceased to interest her as it had once done; she spoke of vulgarity and parade, yet that was not quite what she meant; it had come to seem to her like so much waste, as if she were wasting her time in doing things that did not matter, like grown people would feel if they were asked to pass the afternoon playing with dolls.  Shrugging her shoulders hysterically, she said she could not explain.

“But have you an idea of what life you wish to lead?”

“No, I don’t think I have; I only know that I am not happy in my present life.”

“I believe you see a good deal of Sir Owen Asher.  He helped you, did he not, in your musical education?”

“Yes,” she answered under her breath.  “He is an intimate friend.”  In a moment of unexpected courage, she said, “Do you know him, Monsignor?”

“I have heard a good deal about him, and nothing, I regret to say, to his credit.  He is, I believe, an avowed atheist, and does not hesitate to declare his unbelief in every society, and to make open boast of an immoral life.  He has read and tried to understand a little more than the people with whom he associates.  I suppose the doubts you entertain regarding the doctrine of the Church are the result of his teaching?”

With a little pathetic air, Evelyn admitted that Owen had used every possible argument to destroy her faith.  She had read Huxley, Darwin, and a little Herbert Spencer.

“Herbert Spencer!  Miserable collections of trivial facts, bearing upon nothing.  Of what value, I ask, can it be to suffering humanity to know that such and such a fact has been observed and described?  Then the general law! rubbish, ridiculous rubbish!”

“The scientists fail to see that what we feel matters much more than what we know.”

“True, quite true,” he said, turning sharply and looking at her with admiration.  Then, recollecting himself, he said, “But God does not exist because we feel He exists.  He exists not through us, but through Himself, from all time and through all eternity.  To feel is better than to observe, to pray is better than to inquire, but indiscriminate abandonment to our feelings would lead us to give credence to every superstition.  You have, I perceive, escaped from the rank materialism of Sir Owen’s teaching, but whither are you drifting, my dear child?  You must return to the Church; without the Church, we are as vessels without a rudder or compass.”

He walked up and down the room as though debating with himself.  Evelyn held her breath, wondering what new turn the conversation would take.  Suddenly she lost her courage, and overcome with fear got up to go, and Monsignor, considering that enough had been said, did not attempt to detain her.  But as he bade her good-bye at the door, his keen eye fixed upon her, he added, “Remember, I do not admit your difficulties to be intellectual ones.  When you come to realise that for yourself, I shall be glad to do all in my power to help you.  God bless you, my child!”