“I know I am not a worshiper,” he said.  “I have never professed to be a Christian—­oh, I am not a Mohammedan or a Hindu!—­but I do not profess to be a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ.  I should not like,” he said reflectively, “to add to a life indifferent to my Creator the insult of a mock worship.”

He bent his brows heavily to consider if such a course were really his.  “I would leave the whole thing to-day,” he said vehemently, “as you are doing, Miss Gray, if I could.  I would follow other lines in my profession, but I am in this now and it is my living.  It means bread and butter to those dependent on me.”

He paused, and Winifred said nothing but looked at him with strong sympathy.  He went on: 

“It will not excuse me, I suppose, but whose is the greater sin?  Is it mine, or theirs who hired me?  I thought of it professionally.  If one honest man had met me with the question, ’Can you lead that part of our worship to God in spirit and in truth?’ I should have known that I could not, and said so.  Then I should have turned my attention to secular paths where secular men belong.  But there’s the rub!  Not one of them thought of it, I suppose.  What a farce it is!  The minister yesterday talked of incense rising to God.  It doesn’t get beyond their nostrils, I think.  You know that man—­what’s his name?—­he’s a stock broker, who sits down the right aisle?  Well, you know there was a talk once of dismissing the quartette, and retaining only the chorus (under my direction) to reduce expenses.  That man declared if the quartette were dismissed he would leave the church.  He is not a member anyway, I think, but he pays!  There is worship for you!  I tell you, the people glut their own souls with good music, and go home thinking they have worshiped God.  Oh, I wish there were reality in the world!”

Mr. Mercer threw his head back and ran his fingers nervously through his wavy locks.  His eyes were burning and there was a bright red spot on either cheek.

Winifred spoke out impulsively: 

“Oh, Mr. Mercer, there is reality!  I know there is somewhere, and I—­I am just beginning—­but I mean to be a true worshiper, myself.”

He looked at her, and the gleam in his dark eyes softened.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I spoke too strongly.  Yes, I believe there is reality—­a little—­somewhere,” and he smiled.  Something in her soft brown eyes as he looked in them carried him many years back, when eyes something like them looked down on him, while a voice sang sacred words which he knew the heart loved well.  Yes, there was reality somewhere.

CHAPTER IV

ADELE

Winifred awoke Tuesday morning with melody in her heart.  She moved about her room with the exhilaration of a fresh joy in living.  She took her Bible, which still wore the genteel, unsullied dress of a stranger, and turned to the place she wished to read.  She had not got beyond the text of Sunday: