“I shall be glad to hear whatever you have to say, and if I can possibly help you, rest assured I will.  What perplexes you?”

“A great many things, sir.  Of late, I have read several works that have unsettled my former faith, and, indeed, confused and darkened my mind most miserably, and I thought you might aid me in my search after truth.”

He threw his cigar into the fire, and, while an expression of sorrow clouded his face, said, very gravely: 

“Beulah, I am afraid I am one of the last persons to whom you should apply for assistance.  Do the perplexities to which you allude involve religious questions?”

“Yes, sir; almost entirely.”

“I am too unsettled myself to presume to direct others.”

Beulah looked up in unfeigned astonishment.

“You certainly are not what is termed skeptical?”

“Most sincerely do I wish that I was not.”

There was a short silence, broken by Beulah’s saying, slowly and sorrowfully: 

“You cannot aid me, then!”

“I am afraid not.  When a young man I was thoroughly skeptical in my religious views (if I may be said to have had any).  At the time of my marriage I was an infidel, and such the world still calls me.  If I am not now, it is because my wife’s unpretending consistent piety has taught me to revere the precepts of a revelation which I long ago rejected.  Her pure religion makes me respect Christianity, which once I sneered at.  I am forced to acknowledge the happy results of her faith, and I may yet be brought to yield up old prejudices and confess its divine origin.  I am no atheist, thank God! never have been.  But I tell you candidly, my doubts concerning the Bible make me an unsafe guide for a mind like yours.  For some time I have marked the course of your reading, by the books I missed from my shelves, and have feared just what has happened.  On one point my experience may be of value to you.  What is comprised under the head of philosophical research will never aid or satisfy you.  I am an old man, Beulah, and have studied philosophic works for many years; but, take my word for it, the mass of them are sheer humbug.  From the beginning of the world philosophers have been investigating the countless mysteries which present themselves to every earnest mind; but the arcana are as inscrutable now as ever.  I do not wish to discourage you, Beulah; nor do I desire to underrate human capabilities; but, in all candor, this kind of study does not pay.  It has not repaid me—­it has not satisfied Hartwell, who went deeper into metaphysics than anyone I know, and who now has less belief of any sort than anyone I ever wish to know.  I would not advise you to prosecute this branch of study.  I am content to acknowledge that of many things I know nothing, and never can be any wiser; but Guy Hartwell is too proud to admit his incapacity to grapple with some of these mysteries.  Beulah, my wife is one of the happiest