“In taking that attitude, George, aren’t you limiting the power of God?” said Mrs. Waring.

“How does it limit the power of God, mother,” her son-in-law asked, “to discover that he chooses to work by laws?  The most suicidal tendency in religious bodies today is their mediaeval insistence on what they are pleased to call the supernatural.  Which is the more marvellous—­that God can stop the earth and make the sun appear to stand still, or that he can construct a universe of untold millions of suns with planets and satellites, each moving in its orbit, according to law; a universe wherein every atom is true to a sovereign conception?  And yet this marvel of marvels—­that makes God in the twentieth century infinitely greater than in the sixteenth—­would never have been discovered if the champions of theology had had their way.”

Mrs. Waring smiled a little.

“You are too strong for me, George,” she said, “but you mustn’t expect an old woman to change.”

“Mother, dear,” cried Eleanor, rising and laying her hand on Mrs. Waring’s cheek, “we don’t want you to change.  It’s ourselves we wish to change, we wish for a religious faith like yours, only the same teaching which gave it to you is powerless for us.  That’s our trouble.  We have only to look at you,” she added, a little wistfully, “to be sure there is something—­something vital in Christianity, if we could only get at it, something that does not depend upon what we have been led to believe is indispensable.  George, and men like him, can only show the weakness in the old supports.  I don’t mean that they aren’t doing the world a service in revealing errors, but they cannot reconstruct.”

“That is the clergyman’s business,” declared Mr. Bridges.  “But he must first acknowledge that the old supports are worthless.”

“Well,” said Phil, “I like your rector, in spite of his anthropomorphism —­perhaps, as George would say, because of it.  There is something manly about him that appeals to me.”

“There,” cried Eleanor, triumphantly, “I’ve always said Mr. Hodder had a spiritual personality.  You feel—­you feel there is truth shut up inside of him which he cannot communicate.  I’ll tell you who impresses me in that way more strongly than any one else—­Mr. Bentley.  And he doesn’t come to church any more.”

“Mr. Bentley,” said her, mother, “is a saint.  Your father tried to get him to dinner to-day, but he had promised those working girls of his, who live on the upper floors of his house, to dine with them.  One of them told me so.  Of course he will never speak of his kindnesses.”

“Mr. Bentley doesn’t bother his head about theology,” said Sally.  “He just lives.”

“There’s Eldon Parr,” suggested George Bridges, mentioning the name of the city’s famous financier; “I’m told he relieved Mr. Bentley of his property some twenty-five years ago.  If Mr. Hodder should begin to preach the modern heresy which you desire, Mr Parr might object.  He’s very orthodox, I’m told.”