"Yes, I have been reading," said Catharine slowly—"and I have been very sad."
"Then I wish you wouldn't read!" cried Mary, kissing her hand. "I should like to burn all the newspapers!"
"What good would that do?" said Catharine, trying to smile. "I have been reading Bishop Craye's letter to the Guardian. Poor Bishop!—what a cruel, cruel position!"
The words were spoken with a subdued but passionate energy, and when Mrs. Elsmere perceived that Mary made no reply, her hand slipped out of her daughter's.
There was silence for a little, broken by Catharine, speaking with the same quiet vehemence:
"I cannot understand how you, Mary, or any one else can defend what this man—Mr. Meynell—is doing. If he cannot agree with the Church, let him leave it. But to stay in it—giving this scandal—and this offence—"
Her voice failed her. Mary collected her thoughts as best she could.
At last she said, with difficulty:
"Aren't you thinking only of the people who may be hurt—or scandalized? But after all, there they are in the Church, with all its privileges and opportunities—with everything they want. They are not asked to give anything up—nobody thinks of interfering with them—they have all the old dear things, the faiths and the practices they love—and that help them. They are only asked to tolerate other people who want different things. Mr. Meynell stands—I suppose—for the people—who are starved, whose souls wither, or die, for lack of the only food that could nourish them."
"'I am the bread of life,'" said Catharine with an energy that shook her slight frame. "The Church has no other food to give. Let those who refuse it go outside. There are other bodies, and other means."