“Have you your Testament?”

“Yes,” Elspeth said, producing it.

“Which is the page about saving sinners?”

“It’s all about that.”

“But the page when you are in a hurry?”

Elspeth read aloud the story of the Crucifixion, and Grizel listened sharply until she heard what Jesus said to the malefactor:  “To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”

“And was he?”

“Of course.”

“But he had been wicked all his life, and I believe he was only good, just that minute, because they were crucifying him.  If they had let him come down.—­”

“No, he repented, you know.  That means he had faith, and if you have faith you are saved.  It doesna matter how bad you have been.  You have just to say ‘I believe’ before you die, and God lets you in.  It’s so easy, Grizel,” cried Elspeth, with shining eyes.

Grizel pondered.  “I don’t believe it is so easy as that,” she said, decisively.

Nevertheless she asked presently what the Testament cost, and when Elspeth answered “Fourpence,” offered her the money.

“I don’t want to sell it,” Elspeth remonstrated.

“If you don’t give it to me, I shall take it from you,” said Grizel, determinedly.

“You can buy one.”

“No, the shop people would guess.”

“Guess what?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“I’ll lend it to you.”

“I won’t take it that way.”  So Elspeth had to part with her Testament, saying wonderingly, “Can you read?”

“Yes, and write too.  Mamma taught me.”

“But I thought she was daft,” Elspeth blurted out.

“She is only daft now and then,” Grizel replied, without her usual spirit.  “Generally she is not daft at all, but only timid.”

Next morning the Painted Lady’s child paid three calls, one in town, two in the country.  The adorable thing is that, once having made up her mind, she never flinched, not even when her hand was on the knocker.

The first gentleman received her in his lobby.  For a moment he did not remember her; then suddenly the color deepened on his face, and he went back and shut the parlor-door.

“Did anybody see you coming here?” he asked, quickly.

“I don’t know.”

“What does she want?”

“She did not send me, I came myself.”

“Well?”

“When you come to our house—­”

“I never come to your house.”

“That is a lie.”

“Speak lower!”

“When you come to our house you tell me to go out and play.  But I don’t.  I go and cry.”

No doubt he was listening, but his eyes were on the parlor-door.

“I don’t know why I cry, but you know, you wicked man!  Why is it?”

“Why is it?” she demanded again, like a queen-child, but he could only fidget with his gold chain and shuffle uneasily in his parnella shoes.

“You are not coming to see my mamma again.”