“Indeed, I do not comprehend you. Believe me, Mr. Gwynne, I know very well the difference between us. I am an unlearned woman, and you”——
“Ay, tell me what I am—that is, what you think I am.
“A wise and good man; but yet one in whom great intellect may at times overpower that simple Faith, which is above all knowledge; that Love, which, as said the great apostle of our Church”——
“Silence!” His deep voice rose and fell, like the sound of a breaking wave. Then he stopped, turned full upon her, and said, in a fierce, keen, whisper, “Would you learn the truth? You shall! Know, then, that I believe in none of these things I teach—I am an infidel!”
Olive's arm fell from him.
“Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am Satan standing by your side?”
“Oh, no, no!” She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she burst into tears.
Harold looked at her.
“Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had Olive Rothesay been born my sister.”
“I would I had—I would I had! But, oh! this is awful to hear. You, an unbeliever—you, who all these years have been a minister at the altar—what a fearful thing!”