“You know, sir, I have suspected for some time that Bernal was not as sound doctrinally as you could wish.  His mind, if I may say it, is a peculiarly literal one.  He seems to lack a certain spiritual comprehensiveness—­an enveloping intuition, so to say, of the spiritual value in a material fact.  During that unhappy agitation for the revision of our creed, I have heard him, touching the future state of unbaptised infants, utter sentiments of a heterodoxy that was positively effeminate in its sentimentality—­sentiments which I shall not pain you by repeating.  He has often referred, moreover, with the same disordered sentimentality, to the sad fate of our father—­about whose present estate no churchman can have any doubt.  And then about our belief that even good works are an abomination before God if performed by the unregenerate, the things I have heard him—­”

“Yes—­yes—­let us not talk of it further.  Did you wish to see me especially, Allan?”

“Well, yes, sir, I had wished to, and perhaps now is the best moment.  I wanted to ask you, sir, how you would regard my becoming an Episcopalian.  I am really persuaded that its form of worship, translating as it does so much of the spiritual verity of life into visible symbols, is a form better calculated than the Presbyterian to appeal to the great throbbing heart of humanity.  I hope I may even say, without offense, sir, that it affords a wider scope, a broader sweep, a more stimulating field of endeavour, to one who may have a capacity for the life of larger aspects.  In short, sir, I believe there is a great future for me in that church.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if there was,” answered the old man, who had studied his face closely during the speech.  Yet he spoke with an extreme dryness of tone that made the other look quickly up.

“It shall be as you wish,” he continued, after a meditative pause—­“I believe you are better calculated for that church than for mine.  Obey your call.”

CHAPTER VI

IN THE FOLLY OF HIS YOUTH

At early twilight Bernal, sore at heart for the pain he had been obliged to cause the old man, went to the study-door for a last word with him.

“I believe there is no one above whose forgiveness I need, sir—­but I shall always be grieved if I can’t have yours.  I do need that.”

The old man had stood by the open door as if meaning to cut short the interview.

“You have it.  I forgive you any hurt you have done me; it was due quite as much to my limitations as to yours.  For that other forgiveness, which you will one day know is more than mine—­I—­I shall always pray for that.”

He stopped, and the other waited awkwardly, his heart rushing out in ineffectual flood against the old man’s barrier of stern restraint.  For a moment he made folds in his soft hat with a fastidious precision.  Finally he nerved himself to say calmly: