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in the afternoon of this day, which, it will be remembered, was Saturday, the minister had three callers in tolerably prompt succession. The first to appear was the Angel of the Chair, hailing the minister with a smile as if, instead of disgrace, he had achieved a triumph.

Hampstead's sad face lighted with sheer joy at her manner. It was such a relief that she had not come to commiserate him. His mood was extremely subtle. It irritated him to be pitied; it stung him to be doubted. He only wanted to be believed and to be encouraged by those who did believe him. This fragile blossom of a woman who, with all her gentleness and weakness, had yet in her breast the battling spirit of the martyrs of old, touched just the right note, as after an interval of sympathetic silence, she asked gently, with a voice full of the tenderest consideration, "Can you—can you see it to the end?"

"To the end?"

Hampstead lifted his brows gravely. "You mean—conviction?"

"Yes," she answered with that simple directness which showed that she was blinking no phase of the question. "Is the issue big enough to require such a sacrifice?"

"Oh, I think it is too improbable it could go to that length," Hampstead answered thoughtfully.

"But it might! Is it worth it?" Mrs. Burbeck persisted.