"And you?" I asked; and beneath my smile was the seriousness of the
anxiety of love.

"Not I," he laughed back. "I may be executed, or assassinated, but I
shall never be crucified. I am planted too solidly and stolidly upon the
earth."

"But why should you bring about the crucifixion of the Bishop?" I asked.
"You will not deny that you are the cause of it."

"Why should I leave one comfortable soul in comfort when there are
millions in travail and misery?" he demanded back.

"Then why did you advise father to accept the vacation?"

"Because I am not a pure, exalted soul," was the answer. "Because I am
solid and stolid and selfish. Because I love you and, like Ruth of
old, thy people are my people. As for the Bishop, he has no daughter.
Besides, no matter how small the good, nevertheless his little
inadequate wail will be productive of some good in the revolution, and
every little bit counts."

I could not agree with Ernest. I knew well the noble nature of
Bishop Morehouse, and I could not conceive that his voice raised for
righteousness would be no more than a little inadequate wail. But I did
not yet have the harsh facts of life at my fingers' ends as Ernest had.
He saw clearly the futility of the Bishop's great soul, as coming events
were soon to show as clearly to me.