Aunt bell, Nancy’s worldly guide, who, having lived in Boston, has
  “broadened into the higher unbelief.”

Miss Alvira Abney, Edom’s leading milliner, captivated by Cousin Bill J.

Milo Barrus, The village atheist.

The strong person, of the “Gus Levy All-star Shamrock Vaudeville.”

Caleb Webster, a travelled Edomite.

Cyrus Browett, a New York capitalist and patron of the Church.

Mrs. Donald Wyeth, an appreciative parishioner of Allan Linford.

The Rev Mr. Whittaker, a Unitarian.

Father Riley, of the Church of Rome.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“‘My dear, Bernal is saying good-bye!’” (Frontispiece)

“She could be made to believe that only he could protect her from the
  Gratcher”

“They looked forward with equal eagerness to the day when he should
  become a great and good man”

“He gazed long and exultingly into the eyes yielded so abjectly to his”

* * * * *

BOOK ONE

The Age of Fable

[Illustration]

THE SEEKER

BOOK ONE—­THE AGE OF FABLE

CHAPTER I

HOW THE CHRISTMAS SAINT WAS PROVED

The whispering died away as they heard heavy steps and saw a line of light under the shut door.  Then a last muffled caution from the larger boy on the cot.

“Now, remember!  There ain’t any, but don’t you let on there ain’t—­else he won’t bring you a single thing!”

Before the despairing soul on the trundle-bed could pierce the vulnerable heel of this, the door opened slowly to the broad shape of Clytemnestra.  One hand shaded her eyes from the candle she carried, and she peered into the corner where the two beds were, a flurry of eagerness in her face, checked by stoic self-mastery.

At once from the older boy came the sounds of one who breathes labouredly in deep sleep after a hard day.  But the littler boy sat rebelliously up, digging combative fists into eyes that the light tickled.  Clytemnestra warmly rebuked him, first simulating the frown of the irritated.

“Now, Bernal!  Wide awake!  My days alive!  You act like a wild Indian’s little boy.  This’ll never do.  Now you go right to sleep this minute, while I watch you.  Look how fine and good Allan is.”  She spoke low, not to awaken the one virtuous sleeper, who seemed thereupon to breathe with a more swelling and obtrusive rectitude.

“Clytie—­now—­ain’t there any Santa Claus?”