Hodder went to the window and thoughtfully watched the hurrying figure of Mr. Atterbury until it disappeared, almost skipping, around the corner . . . .  The germ of truth, throughout the centuries, had lost nothing of its dynamic potentialities.  If released and proclaimed it was still powerful enough to drive the world to insensate anger and opposition....

As he stood there, lost in reflection, a shining automobile drew up at the curb, and from it descended a firm lady in a tight-fitting suit whom he recognized as Mrs Wallis Plimpton.  A moment later she had invaded the office—­for no less a word may be employed to express her physical aggressiveness, the glowing health which she radiated.

“Good morning, Mr. Hodder,” she said, seating herself in one of the straight-backed chairs.  “I have been so troubled since you preached that sermon yesterday, I could scarcely sleep.  And I made up my mind I’d come to you the first thing this morning.  Mr. Plimpton and I have been discussing it.  In fact, people are talking of nothing else.  We dined with the Laureston Greys last night, and they, too, were full of it.”  Charlotte Plimpton looked at him, and the flow of her words suddenly diminished.  And she added, a little lamely for her, “Spiritual matters in these days are so difficult, aren’t they?”

“Spiritual matters always were difficult, Mrs. Plimpton,” he said.

“I suppose so,” she assented hurriedly, with what was intended for a smile.  “But what I came to ask you is this—­what are we to teach our children?”

“Teach them the truth,” the rector replied.

“One of the things which troubled me most was your reference to modern criticism,” she went on, recovering her facility.  “I was brought up to believe that the Bible was true.  The governess—­Miss Standish, you know, such a fine type of Englishwoman—­reads the children Bible stories every Sunday evening.  They adore them, and little Wallis can repeat them almost by heart—­the pillar of cloud by day, Daniel in the lions’ den, and the Wise Men from the East.  If they aren’t true, some one ought to have told us before now.”

A note of injury had crept into her voice.

“How do you feel about these things yourself?” Holder inquired.

“How do I feel?  Why, I have never thought about them very much—­they were there, in the Bible!”

“You were taught to believe them?”

“Of course,” she exclaimed, resenting what seemed a reflection on the Gore orthodoxy.

“Do they in any manner affect your conduct?”

“My conduct?” she repeated.  “I don’t know what you mean.  I was brought up in the church, and Mr. Plimpton has always gone, and we are bringing up the children to go.  Is that what you mean?”

“No,” Hodder answered, patiently, “that is not what I mean.  I ask whether these stories in any way enter into your life, become part of you, and tend to make you a more useful woman?”