without comment; though fortunately the readers were as a rule so imperfectly trained that the most objectionable passages had their potentiality of mischief minimized.  He concluded his indictment by a reference to a sermon preached by the average clergyman of the Church of England.  This was, usually, he said, either a theological essay founded upon an obsolete system of theology, or a series of platitudes of morality delivered by an unpractical man.  The first was an insult to the intelligence of an average man; the second was an insult to the intelligence of an average schoolgirl.

His summing up of the whole case against the Church was as logical as it was trenchant.  The Church had surely become, he said, like unto the Giant Pagan in “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” who, when incapable of doing mischief, sat mumbling at the mouth of his cave on the roadside.  The Church had become toothless, decrepit either for evil or for good.  Its mouthings of the past had become its mumblings of the present.  The cave at the mouth of which this toothless giant sat was very dark; and intelligent people went by with a good-natured and tolerant laugh.

This article was published in the Review on Tuesday.  Phyllis read it on the evening of that day.  On Wednesday the newspapers were full of this further development of the theories of the writer, and on Thursday afternoon the writer paid a visit to Phyllis.

As he entered the drawing room he found himself face to face with Herbert Courtland, who was in the act of leaving.

CHAPTER XXIV.

SHE WAS A WIFE, AND SHE HAD A LOVER WHO DISAPPOINTED HER.

The prayer of Ella Linton had not been answered.  She had prayed, not that her heart wherewith she loved Herbert Courtland might be changed—­that she knew would be difficult; not that her love for Herbert Courtland might cease—­that she believed to be impossible; but simply that Herbert Courtland might be kept away from her—­that she knew to be the most sensible course her scheme of imploration could take.

She was well aware of the fact that God had given her strength to run away from Herbert Courtland, and for that she was sincerely thankful; she did not pause to analyze her feelings, to ask herself if her thanks were due to her reflection upon the circumstance of her husband’s return, at the very hour when she had appointed to meet Herbert Courtland; she only felt that God had been good to her in giving her sufficient strength to run away from that appointment.  Then it was that she had prayed that he might be kept away from her.  Surely God would find it easy to do that, she thought.  Surely she might assume that God was on her side, and that he would not leave his work half done.

But when she began to think of the thorough manner in which God does his work she began to wish that she had not prayed quite so earnestly.  Supposing that God should think it fit to keep him away from her by sending a blast from heaven to capsize that yacht in the deep sea, what would she think of the fervency of her prayer then?