We Two | Page 8

and it meant a great deal to them. She
was his only child, and it had at first been a great disappointment to
every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn had long ago ceased to
regret this, and the nickname referred more to Erica's capability of
being both son and daughter to him, able to help him in his work and at
the same time to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of her name,
for she had been called after her father's greatest friend, Eric Haeberlein,
a celebrated republican, who once during a long exile had taken refuge
in London. His views were in some respects more extreme than
Raeburn's, but in private life he was the gentlest and most fascinating
of men, and had quite won the heart of his little namesake.
As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that
something had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which had
noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at once that
his own child had been troubled.
"Something has vexed you," he said. "What is the matter, Erica?"
"I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much," said Erica,
casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones had become
absorbingly interesting.
"I fancy I know already," said Raeburn. "It is about your friend at the
High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had a letter from
her father."
"What does he say? May I see it?" asked Erica.
"I tore it up," said Raeburn, "I thought you would ask to see it, and the
thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to. How
did you hear about it?"
"Gertrude wrote me a note," said Erica.
"At her father's dictation, no doubt," said Raeburn; "I should know his
style directly, let me see it."
"I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it," said Erica.
Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each other,
they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.
"It is the old story," said Raeburn. "Life only, as Pope Innocent III
benevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of misbelievers, and
that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up your mind to bear the
social stigma, child. Do you see the moral of this?"
"No," said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh.

"The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,"
said Raeburn. "There is this one good point about persecution-- it does
draw us all nearer together, really strengthens us in a hundred ways. So,
little one, you must forswear school friends, and be content with your
'very strong man Kwasind,' and we will
"'Live in peace together Speak with naked hearts together.'
By the bye, it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to the
lecture tonight; do you think you can take notes for me instead?"
This was in reality the most delicate piece of tact and consideration, for
it was, of course, Erica's delight and pride to help her father.
CHAPTER II
. From Effect to Cause
Only the acrid spirit of the times, Corroded this true steel. Longfellow.
Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Not Thine the zealot's ban; Thou well
canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man. Whittier.
Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergyman of the Episcopal
Church. His history, though familiar to his own followers and to them
more powerfully convincing than many arguments against modern
Christianity, was not generally known. The orthodox were apt to
content themselves with shuddering at the mention of his name; very
few troubled themselves to think or inquire how this man had been
driven into atheism. Had they done so they might, perhaps, have treated
him more considerately, at any rate they must have learned that the
much-disliked prophet of atheism was the most disinterested of men,
one who had the courage of his opinions, a man of fearless honesty.
Raeburn had lost his mother very early; his father, a well-to-do man,
had held for many years a small living in the west of Scotland. He was
rather a clever man, but one-sided and bigoted; cold-hearted, too, and
caring very little for his children. Of Luke, however, he was, in his
peculiar fashion, very proud, for at an early age the boy showed signs
of genius. The father was no great worker; though shrewd and clever,
he had no ambition, and was quietly content to live out his life in the
retired little parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him, and a