“Oh, I can’t stand her!” whispered Adele in an ecstasy of dislike.  “I should fly if I had to look at her long!  Sister Saint Serena—­the Salubrious!”

Winifred choked down a laugh at Adele’s suddenly inspired alliteration, while Hubert looked a dignified reproach.  It was a poor preparation, certainly, for what was to follow.  Adele’s face straightened innocently, while Winifred still struggled to suppress her risibility.

There were few preliminaries before Mr. Bond proceeded to speak.  His subject dealt with vital matters, with underlying truth upon which rests all lesser fact, and he spoke with a calm certainty, unlike “the Scribes.”  His lecture betrayed a familiarity with the Scriptures such as his auditors had seldom met with before, and a reverence for them born not of superstition but of some apprehension of their unfathomed depths.  Our little party listened with fascinated interest.  Especially was Hubert delighted when from the portions that had been the favorite debating ground of his sceptical friends riches of meaning were discovered that stamped unmistakably the divine imprimatur upon them.  Winifred and Adele forgot Mrs. Bland and every one else listening; the one with sweet content in hearing anything that concerned the One she loved, and the other with an awakened interest in lines of thought she had never pursued before.

“He is splendid!” said Adele at the close of the lecture.  “I am coming every day.  Unless—­there’s that bothersome card party Thursday!  Stupid affair!  But I won’t go.  What’s the use?”

And so Mr. Bond secured a regular attendant.

Many were the expressions of interest, some of them very genuine.  Mrs. Gray had listened to her guest with valorous attempts to resist the habitual afternoon nap, and told him later how very good indeed the lecture was and hoped he would quite understand how manifold were the cares of a household, and how unavoidable her hindrances, should she be unable to be present every day.  And Mr. Bond did understand his gentle hostess very well, and often as he saw her in her home his meditative eye rested upon her fair mother-face with an expression of chivalrous pity and of earnest longing.

The second day’s lecture found the audience sifted to some degree of the idly curious and of a part of the critics unto whose standards the speaker had failed to attain.  As Mr. Bond’s language was remarkably free from the current phraseology of the schools of teaching, it was difficult for theological birds to discover at once whether indeed he were of their feather, and a second hearing, at least, was needed.  But no uncertain note was sounded to the alarm of any advocate of the most orthodox written creed or of the severest unwritten code of belief, in answer to the pivotal question of all theology:  Jesus, the Son of Man—­Who is He?  None gave more ardent honor to that Mystery of godliness, who