"Is sterility," said the Bishop. "I know. But we don't want your pity. We want your help."
Carthew knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"Then first," he said, "you must get rid of those lifebelts, where the race goes past them, and teach your clergy to swim. And then you must keep 'em swimming. And you must see that they swim first. Don't stultify their efforts by askin' 'em to square impossible traditions with new truths, or mediæval ethics with essential Christianity. Don't call 'em unsound because they have inklings inside 'em that Revelation didn't cease with St. John or interpretation with the Epistle to the Hebrews. Let 'em have Visions of their own. Tell 'em to go out, and make discoveries. Let 'em dare to be simple—really simple, that is. And trust God and human kindness to do the rest."
I don't think that he was speaking lightly, but the Bishop looked at him for a moment rather closely.
"You're a believer?" he said. "You don't mind my asking?"
"Not a bit," said Carthew. "I'm a believer. And what's more, I'm a believer in an organised, visible Church, not because it's vital, but because it's expedient. Only its stained-glass windows, if they must be stained, should contain blacksmiths and boxers and wireless telegraphists, with some bank clerks and a bus driver, and of course some children." Mrs. Carthew had just brought out the twins, "for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
Your affect. cousin,
Peter Harding.
P.S.—Rogers is coming to dinner with us, as you suggested, before he goes back to Cumberland.