For a moment Holder did not trust himself to reply.  He looked down across the desk at the financier, who was fumbling with the leaves.

“They do not demand it, Mr. Parr,” he answered, gently.  “And I have tried to make it plain to you that you have lost the right to give it.  I expected to fail in this.  I have failed.”

“What do you mean?” Eldon Parr let the cheque book close.

“I mean what I said,” the rector replied.  “That if you would save your soul you must put an end, to-morrow, to the acquisition of money, and devote the rest of your life to an earnest and sincere attempt to make just restitution to those you have wronged.  And you must ask the forgiveness of God for your sins.  Until you do that, your charities are abominations in his sight.  I will not trouble you any longer, except to say that I shall be ready to come to you at any time my presence may be of any help to you.”

The banker did not speak . . . .  With a single glance towards the library Holder left the house, but paused for a moment outside to gaze back at it, as it loomed in the darkness against the stars.

CHAPTER XXI

ALISON GOES TO CHURCH

I

On the following Sunday morning the early light filtered into Alison’s room, and she opened her strong eyes.  Presently she sprang from her bed and drew back the curtains of the windows, gazing rapturously into the crystal day.  The verdure of the Park was freshened to an incredible brilliancy by the dew, a thin white veil of mist was spread over the mirror of the waters, the trees flung long shadows across the turf.

A few minutes later she was out, thrilled by the silence, drawing in deep, breaths of the morning air; lingering by still lakes catching the blue of the sky—­a blue that left its stain upon the soul; as the sun mounted she wandered farther, losing herself in the wilderness of the forest.

At eight o’clock, when she returned, there were signs that the city had awakened.  A mounted policeman trotted past her as she crossed a gravel drive, and on the tree-flecked stretches, which lately had been empty as Eden, human figures were scattered.  A child, with a sailboat that languished for lack of wind, stared at her, first with fascination and wonder in his eyes, and then smiled at her tentatively.  She returned the smile with a start.

Children had stared at her like that before now, and for the first time in her life she asked herself what the look might mean.  She had never really been fond of them:  she had never, indeed, been brought much in contact with them.  But now, without warning, a sudden fierce yearning took possession of her:  surprised and almost frightened, she stopped irresistibly and looked back at the thin little figure crouched beside the water, to discover that his widened eyes were still upon her.  Her own lingered on him shyly, and thus for a moment she hung in doubt whether to flee or stay, her heart throbbing as though she were on the brink of some unknown and momentous adventure.  She took a timid step.