“Almost all.  You cannot, till you begin to obey him; for till then he will not shew himself to you.  The epitome of all beauty is in those two words —­ Jesus Christ.”

She made no answer yet, with her head bowed, and striving to check the straining sobs with which her breast was heaving.  She had a feeling that he was looking on compassionately; but it was a good while before she could restrain herself into calmness; and during that time he added nothing more.  When she could look up, she found he was not looking at her; his eyes were turned upon the river, where the moon made a broad and broadening streak of wavy brightness.  But Elizabeth looked at the quiet of his brow, and it smote her; though there was now somewhat of thoughtful care upon the face.  The tears that she thought she had driven back, rushed fresh to her eyes again.

“Do you believe what I last said, Miss Elizabeth?” he said turning round to her.

“About the epitome of all beauty?”

“Yes.  Do you believe it?”

“You say so —­ I don’t understand it,” she said sadly and somewhat perplexed.

“I told you so,” he answered, looking round to the moonlight again.

“But Mr. Landholm,” said Elizabeth in evident distress, “won’t you tell me something more?”

“I cannot.”

“Oh yes you can, —­ a great deal more,” she said weeping.

“I could,” he said gravely, —­ “yet I should tell you nothing —­ you would not understand me.  You must, find it out for yourself.”

“How in the world can I?”

“There is a promise, —­ ’If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.’”

“I don’t know how to begin, nor anything about it,” said Elizabeth, weeping still.

“Begin anywhere.”

“How?  What do you mean?”

“Open the Bible at the first chapter of Matthew, and read.  Ask honestly, of your own conscience and of God, at each step, what obligation upon you grows out of what you are reading.  If you follow his leading he will lead you on, —­ to himself.”

Elizabeth sobbed in silence for some little time; then she said,

“I will do it, Mr. Landholm.”

“If you do,” said he, “you will find you can do nothing.”

“Nothing!” said Elizabeth.

“You will find you are dependent upon the good pleasure of God for power to take the smallest step.”

“His good pleasure! —­ Suppose it should not be given me.”

“There is no ‘suppose’ about that,” Winthrop answered, with a slight smile, which seen as it was through a veil of tears, Elizabeth never forgot, and to which she often looked back in after time; —­ “’Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.’  But he does not always get a draught at the first asking.  The water of life was not bought so cheap as that.  However, ‘to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.’”

Elizabeth hearkened to him, with a curious mixture of yielding and rebellion at once in her mind.  She felt them both there.  But the rebellion was against the words; her yielding was for the voice that brought the words to her ear.  She paused awhile.