The frank eyes looked through the eyeglasses pleasantly.  “Are you sure of the contrary?” he asked.

“No,” said Hubert honestly.

“Admitting the supposition that He is, and is a rewarder of them that seek Him, does it cover the ground of responsibility to ignore Him because you are not sure?”

“Perhaps not,” said Hubert.  “But,” he added doggedly, “if He is, and wishes to be known and worshiped, He ought to be demonstrable.”

Mrs. Gray looked a little frightened.  She never liked to hear Hubert talk about those things, and it was so mortifying to have him take such a stand against the church and everything everybody—­at least most respectable people—­believed.  She was sure he was saying something dreadful now.  Mr. Gray looked apprehensive, too.  Winifred’s self-revelation of the morning made her feel like casting no stones at her brother.

Mr. Bond looked at Hubert mildly.

“I think you are quite right,” he said.

Here the discussion seemed to end.  Hubert could make no reply to the man who agreed with him.  An instinct to fight for his position had sprung up, but he was disarmed by Mr. Bond’s assent to his proposition.  He was not accustomed to being met like that.  His father’s loyal policy had been to protect his household from infidel talk, and he had not taken too much pains to ascertain his son’s point of view, and if possible, to lead him from it into light.  Hubert had found some Christian people ready to argue with him who would admit no position he held, however logical, believing that every arrow from the sceptic’s quiver must be a poisoned one.  He withdrew in bitterness from such encounters.  To-day Mr. Bond’s honest sympathy with his outspoken conviction found a sensitive chord in the young man’s stout-seeming heart.

Conversation drifted to lesser things until the ample meal was finished, and the little company broke up.  Mr. Gray was sure his guest would wish a little rest and quiet in preparation for the evening service, which assurance happily freed himself for the usual nap which his soul coveted after the Sunday early dinner.  Mrs. Gray departed for her own pretty room, her dainty dressing gown, silk draperies, and gentle doze.  Winifred went to her room to resume the battle that was on, Hubert betook himself to his accustomed walk.

Walking down the avenue graced by his own home, Hubert glanced across the street and saw, to his regret, the handsome figure and airy step of George Frothingham.  He hoped that gentleman did not see him, for he disliked him and did not wish to be bored by a conversation.  Hubert disliked Frothingham on two separate counts:  first, because he was not the sterling quality of man Hubert thought he ought to be, and secondly because, being such a man as he was, he still dared raise his miserable eyes toward Winifred.  More than any other object in the world Hubert loved his sister,