“He knows something,” she thought.  “What is it that he knows?  They all seem to know.”

She turned the subject back again to her sister-in-law and Mr. Gorst.  “She thinks she can save him.”

“Her brother?”

It was another turn of the searchlight, but this time the Canon veiled his eyes, as if in mercy.  He really knew nothing, nothing at all; but, as a man of the world, he felt that there was a great deal more than Mr. Gorst and Miss Majendie at the back of this discussion, and he was very curious to know what it might be.

Anne recoiled from the veiled condemnation of his face more than she had from its open intimations.  She was not clever enough to see that the clever Canon had simply laid a trap for her.

She was now convinced that there was something that he knew.  She lifted her head in loyal defiance of his knowledge.  “No,” said she proudly, “Mr. Gorst.  It was of him I was speaking.”

“Ah,” said the Canon, as if his mind had come down with difficulty from the contemplation of another and more interesting personality; and again the significance of his manner was not lost upon Anne.

“I do not know Miss Majendie,” he went on, still with the air of forcing himself to deal equitably with a subject of minor interest; “but if I am not much mistaken, she is, is she not, a little morbid?”

“She is a hopeless invalid.”

“I know she is” (his voice dropped pity).  “Poor thing—­poor thing!  And she thinks that she can save him?  Mark me, I put no limit to the saving grace of God, and I would not like to say whom He may not choose as His instrument.  But before we presume to act for Him, we should be very sure about the choice.  Judging by the fruits—­the fruits of this friendship”—­he paused, as if seeking for a perfect justice—­“Yes.  That is what we must look at.  I imagine Miss Majendie has been morbid on this subject.  Morbid; and, perhaps, a little weak?”

Anne flushed.  She was distressed to think she had given such an impression.  “Indeed, indeed she isn’t.  You wouldn’t say that if you knew her.”

“I do not know her.  But the strongest of us may be sometimes weak.  You must be strong for her.  And I”—­he smiled—­“must be strong for you.  And I tell you that you have been—­so far—­wise and right.  As long as this man continues in his evil courses, go on as you are doing.  Do not encourage him by admitting him to your house and to your friendship.  But”—­(the Canon stood up, both for the better emphasis of his point, and as a gentle reminder to Mrs. Majendie that his dinner-hour was now approaching)—­“but let him repent; let him give up his most objectionable companions; let him lead a pure life—­and then—­accept him—­welcome him—­“(the Canon opened his arms, as if he were that moment receiving a repentant sinner) “rejoice over him”—­(the Canon’s face became fairly illuminated) “as—­as much as you like.”

The peroration was rapid, valedictory, complete.  He thrust out his hand, displaying the whole palm of it as a sign of openness, honesty, and good-will.