Most of the letters, as he had anticipated, were painful reading.  And the silver paper-cutter with which he opened the first had been a Christmas present from Mrs. Burlingame, who had penned it, a lady of signal devotion to the church, who for many years had made it her task to supply and arrange the flowers on the altar.  He had amazed and wounded her—­she declared—­inexpressibly, and she could no longer remain at St. John’s—­for the present, at least.  A significant addition.  He dropped the letter, and sat staring out of the window . . . presently arousing himself, setting himself resolutely to the task of reading the rest.

In the mood in which he found himself he did not atop to philosophize on the rigid yet sincere attitude of the orthodox.  His affection for many of them curiously remained, though it was with some difficulty he strove to reconstruct a state of mind with which he had once agreed.  If Christianity were to sweep on, these few unbending but faithful ones must be sacrificed:  such was the law. . .  Many, while repudiating his new beliefs—­or unbeliefs!—­added, to their regrets of the change in him, protestations of a continued friendship, a conviction of his sincerity.  Others like Mrs. Atterbury, were frankly outraged and bitter.  The contents of one lilac-bordered envelope brought to his eyes a faint smile.  Did he know—­asked the sender of this—­could he know the consternation he had caused in so many persons, including herself?  What was she to believe?  And wouldn’t he lunch with her on Thursday?

Mrs. Ferguson’s letter brought another smile—­more thoughtful.  Her incoherent phrases had sprung from the heart, and the picture rose before him of the stout but frightened, good-natured lady who had never accustomed herself to the enjoyment of wealth and luxury.  Mr. Ferguson was in such a state, and he must please not tell her husband that she had written.  Yet much in his sermon had struck her as so true.  It seemed wrong to her to have so much, and others so little!  And he had made her remember many things in her early life she had forgotten.  She hoped he would see Mr. Ferguson, and talk to him. . . .

Then there was Mrs. Constable’s short note, that troubled and puzzled him.  This, too, had in it an undercurrent of fear, and the memory came to him of the harrowing afternoon he had once spent with her, when she would have seemed to have predicted the very thing which had now happened to him.  And yet not that thing.  He divined instinctively that a maturer thought on the subject of his sermon had brought on an uneasiness as the full consequences of this new teaching had dawned upon her consequences which she had not foreseen when she had foretold the change.  And he seemed to read between the lines that the renunciation he demanded was too great.  Would he not let her come and talk to him? . . .

Miss Brewer, a lady of no inconsiderable property, was among those who told him plainly that if he remained they would have to give up their pews.  Three or four communications were even more threatening.  Mr. Alpheus Gore, Mrs. Plimpton’s brother, who at five and forty had managed to triple his share of the Gore inheritance, wrote that it would be his regretful duty to send to the bishop an Information on the subject of Mr. Hodder’s sermon.