He was fully aware of his rights, and he had no intention of resigning.  To resign would be to abandon the work for which he was responsible, not to them, but to God.  And he was perfectly willing—­nay, eager to defend his Christianity before any ecclesiastical court, should the bishop decide that a court was necessary.  The day of freedom, of a truer vision was at hand, the day of Christian unity on the vital truths, and no better proof of it could be brought forward than the change in him.  In his ignorance and blindness he had hitherto permitted compromise, but he would no longer allow those who made only an outward pretence of being Christians to direct the spiritual affairs of St. John’s, to say what should and what should not be preached.  This was to continue to paralyze the usefulness of the church, to set at naught her mission, to alienate those who most had need of her, who hungered and thirsted after righteousness, and went away unsatisfied.

He had hardly resumed his seat when Everett Constable got up again.  He remarked, somewhat unsteadily, that to prolong the controversy would be useless and painful to all concerned, and he infinitely regretted the necessity of putting his suggestion that the rector resign in the form of a resolution . . . .  The vote was taken.  Six men raised their hands in favour of his resignation—­Nelson Langmaid among them:  two, Asa Waring and Philip Goodrich, were against it.  After announcing the result, Hodder rose.

“For the reason I have stated, gentlemen, I decline to resign,” he said.  “I stand upon my canonical rights.”

Francis Ferguson arose, his voice actually trembling with anger.  There is something uncanny in the passion of a man whose life has been ordered by the inexorable rules of commerce, who has been wont to decide all questions from the standpoint of dollars and cents.  If one of his own wax models had suddenly become animated, the effect could not have been more startling.

In the course of this discussion, he declared, Mr. Hodder had seen fit to make grave and in his opinion unwarranted charges concerning the lives of some, if not all, of the gentlemen who sat here.  It surprised him that these remarks had not been resented, but he praised a Christian forbearance on the part of his colleagues which he was unable to achieve.  He had no doubt that their object had been to spare Mr. Hodder’s feelings as much as possible, but Mr. Hodder had shown no disposition to spare their own.  He had outraged them, Mr. Ferguson thought,—­wantonly so.  He had made these preposterous and unchristian charges an excuse for his determination to remain in a position where his usefulness had ceased.

No one, unfortunately, was perfect in this life,—­not even Mr. Hodder.  He, Francis Ferguson, was far from claiming to be so.  But he believed that this arraignment of the men who stood highest in the city for decency, law, and order, who supported the Church, who revered its doctrines, who tried to live Christian lives, who gave their time and their money freely to it and to charities, that this arraignment was an arrogant accusation and affront to be repudiated.  He demanded that Mr. Hodder be definite.  If he had any charges to make, let him make them here and now.