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fellow he was!
I heard a characteristic anecdote of him the other day, said
Charles Osmond. He was walking beside one of the African lakes
which he had discovered, when suddenly there dawned on him a new
meaning to long familiar words: 'The blood of Christ,' he
exclaimed. 'That must be Charity! The blood of Christ that must
be Charity!' A beautiful thought, too seldom practically taught.
Erica looked grave.
Characteristic, certainly, of his broadheartedness, but I don't
think that anecdote will do for the readers of the 'IdolBreaker.'
Then, looking up at Charles Osmond, she added in a rather lower
tone: Do you know, I had no idea when I began what a difficult
task I had got. I thought in such an active life as that there
would be little difficulty in keeping the religious part away from
the secular, but it is wonderful how Livingstone contrives to mix
them up.
You see, if Christianity be true, it must, as you say, 'mix up' with everything. There should be no rigid distinction between
secular and religious, said Charles Osmond.
If it is true, said Erica, suddenly, and with seeming
irrelevance, then sooner or later we must learn it to be so.
Truth MUST win in the end. But it is worse to wait for perfect
certainty than for books at the museum, she added, laughing. It
is five minutes to nine I shall be late.
Charles Osmond walked home thoughtfully; the meeting had somehow
cheered him.
Absolute conviction that truth must out that truth must make
itself perceptible. I've not often come across a more beautiful
faith than that. Yes, little Undine, right you are. 'Ye shall
know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' Here or there,
here or there
'All things come round to him who will but wait.'
There's one for yourself, Charles Osmond. None of your hurrying
and meddling now, old man; you've just got to leave it to your
betters.
Soliloquizing after this fashion he reached home, and was not sorry
to find his breakfast awaiting him, for he had been up the greater
part of the night.
The great domed library of the British Museum had become very
homelike to Erica, it was her ideal of comfort; she went there
whenever she wanted quiet, for in the small and crowded lodgings
she could never be secure from interruptions, and interruptions
resulted in bad work. There was something, too, in the atmosphere
of the museum which seemed to help her. She liked the perfect
stillness, she liked the presence of all the books. Above all,
too, she liked the consciousness of possession. There was no
narrow exclusiveness about this place, no one could look askance at
her here. The place belonged to the people, and therefore belonged

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