“Mercy!” cried Maria Dolores, stirring.  “What are the special circumstances?”

“Oh, it’s a grisly history,” said John.  “It’s a tale of the wanton, ruthless, needless, purposeless sacrifice of two lives.  It’s his old black icy Puritan blood.  Winthorpe—­that’s his name—­had for years been a freethinker, far too intellectual and enlightened, and that sort of thing, you know, to believe any such old wives’ tale as the Christian Religion.  He and I used to have arguments, tremendous ones, in which, of course, neither in the least shook the other.  Darwin and Spencer, with a dash of his native Emerson, were religion enough for him.  Then this morning he arrived here, and said, ’Congratulate me.  A month ago I was received into the Church.’”

Maria Dolores looked up, animated, her dark eyes sparkling.

“How splendid!” she said.

“Yes,” agreed John, “so I thought.  ‘Congratulate me,’ he said.  I should think I did congratulate him,—­with all my heart and soul.  But then, naturally, I asked him how it had happened, what had brought it to pass.”

“Yes—?” prompted Maria Dolores, as he paused.

“Well,” said John, his face hardening, “he thereupon proceeded to tell me in his quiet way, with his cool voice (it’s like smooth-flowing cold water), absolutely the most inhuman story I have ever had to keep my patience and listen to.”

“What was the story?” asked Maria Dolores.

“If you can credit such inhumanity, it was this,” answered John.  “It seems that he fell in love—­with a girl in Boston, where he lives.  And what’s more, and worse, the girl fell in love with him.  So there they were, engaged.  But she was a Catholic, and his state of unbelief was a cause of great grief to her.  So she pleaded with him, and persuaded, till, merely to comfort her, and without the faintest suspicion that his scepticism could be weakened, he promised to give the Catholic position a thorough reconsideration, to read certain books, and to put himself under instruction with a priest:  which he did.  Which he did, if you please, with the result, to his own unutterable surprise, that one fine day he woke up and discovered that he’d been convinced, that he believed.”

“Yes?” said Maria Dolores, eagerly.  “Yes—?  And then?  And the girl?”

“Ah,” said John, with a groan, “the girl That’s the pity of it.  That’s where his black old Puritan blood comes in.  Blood?  It isn’t blood—­it’s some fluid form of stone—­it’s flint dissolved in vinegar.  The girl!  Mind you, she loved him, they were engaged to be married.  Well, he went to her, and said, ’I have been converted.  I believe in the Christian religion—­your religion.  But I can’t believe a thing like that, and go on living as I lived when I didn’t believe it,—­go on living as if it weren’t true, or didn’t matter.  It does matter—­it matters supremely—­it’s the only thing in the world that matters.  I can’t believe