Now all was well again.  In this new light the dear idol might even at times show a dual personality—­one kneeling beside her very earnestly to worship the other with her.  Why not, since the other showed itself truly worthy of adoration?  With faith made new in her husband—­and, therefore, in God—­she went to Aunt Bell.

She found that lady in touch with the cosmic forces, over her book, “The Beautiful Within,” her particular chapter being headed, “Psychology of Rest:  Rhythms and Sub-rhythms of Activity and Repose; their Synchronism with Subliminal Spontaneity.”  Over this frank revelation of hidden truths Aunt Bell’s handsome head was, for the moment, nodding in sub-rhythms of psychic placidity—­a state from which Nancy’s animated entrance sufficed to arouse her.  As the proud wife spoke, she divested herself of the psychic restraint with something very like a carnal yawn behind her book.

“Oh, Aunt Bell!  Isn’t Allan fine!  Of course, in a way, it’s too bad—­doubtless he’ll spoil his chances for the thing I know he’s set his heart upon—­and he knows it, too—­but he’s going calmly ahead as if the day for martyrs to the truth hadn’t long since gone by.  Oh, dear, martyrs are so dowdy and out-of-date—­but there he is, a great, noble, beautiful soul, with a sense of integrity and independence that is stunning!”

“What has Allan been saying now?” asked Aunt Bell, curiously unmoved.

“Said? It’s what he’s doing! The dear, big, stupid thing is going down there to preach the very first Sunday about Dives and Lazarus—­the poor beggar in Abraham’s bosom and the rich man down below, you remember?” she added, as Aunt Bell seemed still to hover about the centre of psychic repose.

“Well?”

“Well, think of preaching that primitive doctrine to any one in this age—­then think of a young minister talking it to a church of rich men and expecting to receive a call from them!”

Aunt Bell surveyed the plump and dimpled whiteness of her small hands with more than her usual studious complacence.  “My dear,” she said at last, “no one has a greater admiration for Allan than I have—­but I’ve observed that he usually knows what he’s about.”

“Indeed, he knows what he’s about now, Aunt Bell!” There was a swift little warmth in her tones—­“but he says he can’t do otherwise.  He’s going deliberately to spoil his chances for a call to St. Antipas by a piece of mere early-Christian quixotism.  And you must see how great he is, Aunt Bell.  Do you know—­there have been times when I’ve misjudged Allan.  I didn’t know his simple genuineness.  He wants that church, yet he will not, as so many in his place would do, make the least concession to its people.”

Aunt Bell now brought a coldly critical scrutiny to bear upon one small foot which she thrust absently out until its profile could be seen.