Poor Mrs. Spruce felt a sudden choking in her throat, and her motherly face grew red and pale by turns.  Miss Maryllia, the old squire’s daughter, was—­what?  A heathen?—­an unbeliever—­an atheist?  Oh, surely it was not possible—­it could not be!—­she would not accept the idea that a creature so dainty and pretty, so fair and winsome, could be cast adrift on the darkness of life without any trust in the saving grace of the Christian Faith!  Limited as were Mrs. Spruce’s powers of intelligence, she was conscious enough that there would be something sweet and strong lost out of the world, which nothing could replace, were the message of Christ withdrawn from it.  The perplexity of her thoughts was reflected on her countenance and Maryllia, watching her, smiled a little sadly.

“You mustn’t think I don’t believe in God, Spruce,”—­she said slowly—­“I do!  But I can’t agree with all the churches teach about Him.  They make Him out to be a cruel, jealous and revengeful Being—­ -”

“Mr. Walden don’t—–­,” put in Mrs. Spruce, quickly.

“And I like to think of Him as all love and pity and goodness,” went on Maryllia, not heeding her—­“and I don’t say prayers, because I think He knows what is best for me without my asking.  Do you understand?  So it’s really no use my going to church, unless just out of curiosity—­and perhaps I will some day do that,—­I’ll see about it!  But I must know Mr. Walden a little better first,—­I must find out for myself what kind of a man he is, before I make up my mind to endure such a martyrdom as listening to a sermon!  I simply loathe sermons!  I suppose I must have had too many of them when I was a child.  Surely you remember, Spruce, that I used to be taken into Riversford to church?” Mrs. Spruce nodded emphatically in the affirmative.  “Yes!—­because when father was alive the church here was only a ruin.  And I used to go to sleep over the sermons always—­ and once I fell off my seat and had to be carried out.  It was dreadful!  Now Uncle Fred never went to church,—­nor Aunt Emily.  So I’ve quite got out of the way of going—­nobody is very particular about it in Paris or London, you see.  But perhaps I’ll try and hear Mr. Walden preach—­just once—­and I’ll tell you then what I think about it.  I’ll put his card on the mantelpiece to remind me!”

And she suited the action to the word, Mrs. Spruce gazing at her in a kind of mild stupefaction.  It seemed such a very odd thing to stick up a clergyman’s card as a reminder to go to church ’just once’ some Sunday.

Meanwhile Maryllia continued, “Now, Spruce, you must begin to be busy!  You must prepare the Manor for the reception of all sorts of people, small and great.  I feel that the time has come for ’company, company!’ And in the first place I’m going to send for Cicely Bourne,—­she’s my pet ’genius’—­and I’m paying the cost of her musical education in Paris.  She’s an orphan—­like me—­she’s all alone in the world—­like me;—­and