She drew her stitches nervously.

“That has utterly passed out of your mind?”

“Must it not necessarily have done so?”

He stepped back, held his head aside, and examined her thoughtfully.

“H’m.  I have an impression that you went beyond thinking of it as a possibility.  Did you not make a distinct promise to some one or another—­perhaps to the congregation?”

“Yes, a distinct promise.”

He became silent; and Miriam, looking up for the first time, asked: 

“Is it your opinion that the promise is still binding on me?”

“Why, I am inclined to think so.  Your difficulty is, of course, that you don’t see your way to spending a large sum of money to advance something with which you have no sympathy.”

“It isn’t only that I have no sympathy with it,” broke from Miriam.  “The thought of those people and their creeds is hateful to me.  Their so-called religion is a vice.  They are as far from being Christians as I am from being a Mahometan.  To call them Puritans is the exaggeration of compliment.”

Mallard watched and listened to her with a smile.

“Well,” he said, soberly, “I suppose this only applies to the most foolish among them.  However, I see that you can hardly be expected to build them a chapel.  Let us think a moment.—­Are there any public baths in Bartles?”

“There were none when I lived there.”

“The proverb says that after godliness comes cleanliness.  Why should you not devote to the establishing of decent baths what you meant to set apart for the chapel?  How does it strike you?”

She delayed a moment; then—­

“I like the suggestion.”

“Do you know any impartial man there with whom you could communicate on such a subject?”

“I think so.”

“Then suppose you do it as soon as possible?”

“I will.”

She plied her needle for a few minutes longer; then looked up and said that the work was done.

“I am greatly obliged to you.  Now will you come here and look at something?”

She rose and came to his side.  Then she saw that there stood on the easel a drawing-board; on that was a sheet of paper, which showed drawings of two heads in crayon.

“Do you recognize these persons?” he asked, moving a little away.

Yes, she recognized them.  They were both portraits of herself, but subtly distinguished from each other.  The one represented a face fixed in excessive austerity, with a touch of pride that was by no means amiable, with resentful eyes, and lips on the point of becoming cruel.  In the other, though undeniably the features were the same, all these harsh characteristics had yielded to a change of spirit; austerity had given place to grave thoughtfulness, the eyes had a noble light, on the lips was sweet womanly strength.

Miriam bent her head, and was silent.