devastating cynicism at the bottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals — they were sham. She did not believe in the inner life — it was a trick, not a reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world — it was an affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, and the devil — these at least were not sham. She was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemned to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there was no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of desecrated mysteries? The old great truths BAD been true. And she was a leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering