"Mr. Irving said that of us all in the tent last night."
"I know. But 'by their fruits ye shall know them.' Have we unity? And who was teaching Mr. Irving's particular gospel of the fulness of the Spirit, a hundred, no, ten years ago? Whereas the Catholic Church——"
He broke off, and loosed her hand. They stood on the fragrant, peaty soil, strewn with brown pine needles, under the crags above the lake, and the further rocks were just breaking through the mist. A faint sound of early singing floated over to them. They listened.
Let me come closer to Thee, Jesus,
Yes, closer day by day;
Let me lean harder on Thee, Jesus,
Yes, harder all the way.
"Do you know who wrote that?" Paul queried.
"No."
"A monk, who believed that our Lord was in the Sacrament on the Altar."
"Oh, Paul!"
"It's true. It's a kind of omen. Edith, do you know I see a sort of vision nowadays. I see Jesus, planning, choosing, endowing His little band, and making them His Church. 'As the Father hath sent Me, even so send I you.' I see that same Church growing all down the years, always misunderstood, always persecuted, always other-worldly at bottom, and always teaching the same one faith. Its voice, His voice; its power, His power; its heart, His heart. And I seem to see Jesus beckoning me there."
"Oh, Paul, don't, don't. Pray, pray!"