By degrees, as Hodder listened, he became calm.  Like a child, he found himself distracted, talking, asking questions:  and the intervals grew longer between the recurrent surges of fear when the memory rose before him of the events of the day,—­of the woman, the child, and the man:  of Eldon Parr and this deed he had done; hinting, as it did, of closed chambers of other deeds yet to be opened, of countless, hidden miseries still to be revealed:  when he heard once more the tortured voice of the banker, and the question:  “How would you like to live in this house —­alone?” In contrast, now he beheld the peace in the face of the man whose worldly goods Eldon Parr had taken, and whom he had driven out of the church.  Surely, this man had found a solution! . . .  What was it?

Hodder thought of the child, of the verdict of Dr. Jarvis, but he lingered on, loth to leave,—­if the truth be told—­afraid to leave; drawing strength from his host’s calm, wondering as to the source of it, as to the life which was its expression; longing, yet not presuming, to question.  The twilight deepened, and the old darky lit a lamp and led the way back to the library.

“Sam,” said Mr. Bentley, “draw up the armchair for Mr. Hodder beside the window.  It is cooler there.”

“I ought to go,” Hodder said.  “I ought to see how the child is.  Jarvis will have been there by this time, and there may be necessaries—­”

“Jarvis will have attended to that,” Mr. Bentley replied.  “Sit down, Mr. Hodder.  I am not sure that, for the present, we have not done all in this case that is humanly possible.”

“You mean,” said the rector, “that they will accept nothing from me.”  It came from him, spontaneously, like a cry.  He had not meant to say it.  “I don’t blame them.  I don’t blame them for losing their faith in God and man, in the Church.  I ought to have seen it before, but I was blind, incredibly blind—­until it struck me in the face.  You saw it, sir, and you left a church from which the poor are thrust out, which refuses to heed the first precept of its Master.”

“I saw it,” answered Mr. Bentley, “but I could do nothing.  Perhaps you can do—­something.”

“Ah!” Hodder exclaimed sharply, “why do you say that?  The Church is paralyzed, chained.  How can she reach these wretched people who are the victims of the ruthless individualism and greed of those who control her?  You know—­that man, Mr. Bentley.” (Hodder could not bring himself to pronounce Eldon Parr’s name.) “I had an affection for him, I pitied him, because he suffers—­”

“Yes,” echoed Mr. Bentley, “he suffers.”

Hodder was momentarily arrested by the sadness of his tone.

“But he doesn’t know why he suffers—­he cannot be made to see,” the rector went on.  “And he is making others suffer,—­hideously, while he imagines himself a Christian.  He is the Church to that miserable, hopeless wretch we saw to-day, and to hundreds of the same kind whom he has driven to desperation.  And I—­who am supposed to be the vicar of God—­I am powerless.  They have a contempt for me, a just contempt.  They thrust me out of their doors, bid me to return and minister to their oppressors.  You were right to leave, and I should have left long since.”