If we can't convert her to truth, leastways she'll be disciplined to silence." That subtile distinction which John Ward had made between his love and his life was never more apparent than now.

Though his elder's words brought him the keenest consciousness of his wife's unbelief, he never for an instant thought of her as the person whose influence in the church was to be feared.

His church and his wife were too absolutely separate for such identification to be possible.
"And," Mr.Dean added, his metallic voice involuntarily softening, "our feelings, Mr.Ward, mustn't interfere with it; they mustn't make us unkind to her soul by slightin' her best good." "No," John said, still absently, and scarcely listening to his elder,--"no, of course not.

But have you seen her, and talked with her, and tried to lead her to the truth?
That should be done with the tenderest patience before anything so extreme as Sessioning." "We ain't," the elder answered significantly, "but I make no doubt she's been reasoned with and prayed with." "Why, I have not spoken to her," John said, bewildered; "but you have not told me who it is, yet." "Mr.Ward," said the other solemnly, "if you ain't spoke to her, you've neglected your duty; and if you don't give her poor soul a chance of salvation by bringing her to the Session, you are neglectin' your duty still more.

Your church, sir, and the everlastin' happiness of her soul demand that this disease of unbelief should be rooted out.