'That's a fine idea in the
abstract; but I doubt of its happiness in the long-run.' 'Doubt of its happiness? Come now? what could there be better, after
all? Isn't it good enough to be God? What more do you want?' The girl's tone was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed with some
thought of sincerity which lay behind the fun. The young man shook his
head with a smile of kindly tolerance as he answered:

'It isn't that--surely you must know it. I'm ambitious enough, goodness
knows; but there are bounds to satisfy even me. But I'm not sure that
the good little thing isn't right. She seemed, somehow, to hit a bigger
truth than she knew: "fancy having to be just."' 'I don't see much difficulty in that. Anyone can be just!' 'Pardon me,' he answered, 'there is perhaps nothing so difficult in the
whole range of a man's work.' There was distinct defiance in the girl's
eyes as she asked:

'A man's work! Why a man's work? Isn't it a woman's work also?' 'Well, I suppose it ought to be, theoretically; practically it isn't.' 'And why not, pray?' The mere suggestion of any disability of woman as
such aroused immediate antagonism. Her companion suppressed a smile as
he answered deliberately:

'Because, my dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice is not
a virtue women can practise. Mind, I do not say women are unjust. Far
from it, where there are no interests of those dear to them they can be
of a sincerity of justice that can make a man's blood run cold. But
justice in the abstract is not an ordinary virtue: it has to be
considerate as well as stern, and above all interest of all kinds and of
every one--'  The girl interrupted hotly:

'I don't agree with you at all. You can't give an instance where women
are unjust. I don't mean of course individual instances, but classes of
cases where injustice is habitual.' The suppressed smile cropped out now
unconsciously round the man's lips in a way which was intensely
aggravating to the girl. 'I'll give you a few,' he said. 'Did you ever know a mother just to a
boy who beat her own boy at school?' The girl replied quietly:

'Ill-treatment and bullying are subjects for punishment, not justice.' 'Oh, I don't mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizes their
own boys contended for; getting above them in class; showing superior
powers in running or cricket or swimming, or in any of the forms of
effort in which boys vie with each other.' The girl reflected, then she
spoke:

'Well, you may be right. I don't altogether admit it, but I accept it as
not on my side. But this is only one case.' 'A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who in
default of a hangman hanged his son with his own hands, would have done
so if he had been a woman?' The girl answered at once:

'Frankly, no. I don't suppose the mother was ever born who would do such
a thing. But that is not a common case, is it? Have you any other?' The
young man paused before he spoke:

'There is another, but I don't think I can go into it fairly with you.' 'Why not?' 'Well, because after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl and you
can't be expected to know.' The girl laughed:

'Well, if it's anything about women surely a girl, even of my tender age,
must know something more of it, or be able to guess at, than any young
man can. However, say what you think and I'll tell you frankly if I
agree--that is if a woman can be just, in such a matter.' 'Shortly the point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, or to a
man for the matter of that, where either her own affection or a fault of
the other is concerned?' 'I don't see any reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone should
ensure justice in the former case, and the consciousness of superiority
in the other.' The young man shook his head:

'Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much the same
thing. But whether or no, if either of them has to be relied on, I'm
afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and her sword should
be blunted in case its edge should be turned back on herself. I have an
idea that although pride might be a guiding principle with you
individually, it would be a failure with the average. However, as it
would be in any case a rule subject to many exceptions I must let it go.' Harold looked at his watch and rose. Stephen followed him; transferring
her whip into the hand which held up the skirt, she took his arm with her
right hand in the pretty way in which a young girl clings to her elders. Together they went out at the lich-gate. The groom drew over with the
horses. Stephen patted hers and gave her a lump of sugar. Then putting
her foot into Harold's ready hand she sprang lightly into the saddle. Harold swung himself into his saddle with the dexterity of an
accomplished rider. As the two rode up the road, keeping on the shady side under the trees,
Stephen said quietly, half to herself, as if the sentence had impressed
itself on her mind:

'To be God and able to do things!' Harold rode on in silence. The chill of some vague fear was upon him. CHAPTER I--STEPHEN


Stephen Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close on
middle age, when the fact took hold of him that there was no immediate
heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted decision, he set
about looking for a wife. He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever
since their college days. They had, of course, been often in each
other's houses, and Rowly's young sister--almost a generation younger
than himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriage--had
been like a little sister to him too. She had, in the twenty years which
had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. In all the
past years, with the constant opportunity which friendship gave of close
companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire Norman would have been
surprised had he been asked to describe Margaret Rowly and found himself
compelled to present the picture of a woman, not a child. Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoke to
the fact that Margaret came within the category of those he sought. His
usual decision ran its course. Semi-brotherly feeling gave place to a
stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before he even knew it, he
was head over ears in love with his pretty neighbour. Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat so
lightly on him that his age never seemed to come into question in a
woman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he was the
big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. His presence
had always been a gladness; and the sex of the girl, first unconsciously
then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, and her consent was
soon obtained.