“Little maid,” asked the minister, “how is the ankle?”

“It’s well, and to-morrow I’m to walk on it for the first time.  Doctor Ralph has been so good to me—­everybody’s been good.”

Thorpe picked up the book, which lay face downward, and held it close to his near-sighted eyes.  Araminta trembled; she was afraid he would take it away from her.

All that day, she had lived in a new land, where men were brave and women were fair.  Castle towers loomed darkly purple in the sunset, or shone whitely at noon.  Kings and queens, knights and ladies, moved sedately across the tapestry, mounted on white chargers with trappings of scarlet and gold.  Long lances shimmered in the sun and the armour of the knights gave back the light an hundred fold.  Strange music sounded in Araminta’s ears—­love songs and serenades, hymns of battle and bugle calls.  She felt the rush of conflict, knew the anguish of the wounded, and heard the exultant strains of victory.

And all of it—­Araminta had greatly marvelled at this—­was done for love, the love of man and woman.

A knight in the book had asked the lady of his heart to marry him, and she had not seen that she was insulted, nor guessed that he was offering her disgrace.  Araminta wondered that the beautiful lady could be so stupid, but, of course, she had no Aunt Hitty to set her right.  Far from feeling shame, the lady’s heart had sung for joy, but secretly, since she was proud.  Further on, the same beautiful lady had humbled her pride for the sake of her love and had asked the gallant knight to marry her, since she had once refused to marry him.

“Why, Araminta!” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe, greatly surprised.  “I thought Miss Mehitable did not allow you to read novels.”

“A novel!  Why, no, Mr. Thorpe, it isn’t a novel!  It’s just a story book.  Doctor Ralph told me so.”

Austin Thorpe laughed indulgently.  “A rose by any other name,” he said, “is—­none the less a rose.  Doctor Ralph was right—­it is a story book, and I am right, too, for it is also a novel.”

Araminta turned very pale and her eyes filled with tears.

“Mr. Thorpe,” she said, in an anguished whisper, “will I be burned?”

“Why, child, what do you mean?”

“I didn’t know it was a novel,” sobbed Araminta.  “I thought it was a story book.  Aunt Hitty says people who read novels get burned—­they writhe in hell forever in the lake of fire.”

The Reverend Austin Thorpe went to the door and looked out into the hall.  No one was in sight.  He closed the door very gently and came back to Araminta’s bed.  He drew his chair nearer and leaned over her, speaking in a low voice, that he might not be heard.

“Araminta, my poor child,” he said, “perhaps I am a heretic.  I don’t know.  But I do not believe that a being divine enough to be a God could be human enough to cherish so fiendish a passion as revenge.  Look up, dear child, look up!”