"The roof which refuses to shelter my niece," answered Dr. Howe, his voice shaking with anger, "shall not be over my head!"
"Then," said John slowly and gently, "you must listen now to what I have to say."
"Must!" cried the rector.
"Yes, for it is your duty to listen, as it is mine to speak. I dare not hear a servant of God set the opinion of the world above a conception of duty—no matter how strained and unnatural the duty may appear to him—and keep silence. I cannot listen when you urge Helen's temporal happiness, and refuse to consider her eternal welfare, and not tell you you are wrong. You evade the truth; you seek ease in Zion. I charge you, by the sacred name of Him whose minister you are, that you examine your own soul."
Dr. Howe looked at him, his face crimson with anger. "Sir," he stammered, flinging the detaining hand from his arm,—"sir!" And then, for the first time since Archibald Howe took orders, an oath burst from his lips; he struck his stick madly against the table, and rushed from the room.
Alfaretta was lying in wait for him at the garden gate, a large and rustic bunch of flowers in her hand, which she hoped he would carry to Helen.
"How's Mrs. Ward?" she said, trying to detain him. "When will she be home?"
"Get out of my way, girl!" he cried, and, slamming the gate behind him, he strode down the street.