He paused, and drew nearer to her.  “Will that suffice you?”

Her eyes were turned away from his, but he could see a sparkle as of dew on her lashes.

“Sit down by me again,”—­she said in a low uncertain voice—­“You do believe!—­and now that I know this for certain, I can make my confession to you.”

He resumed his seat beside her couch.

“Surely you have nothing to confess—­” he said, gently.

“Why yes, I have!” she declared—­“I’ve not been good, you know!”

He smiled.

“Have you not?” But his voice trembled a little—­“Well!  I suppose I must believe you—­but it will be difficult!”

She looked down at the bunch of violets she held, and touched the purple and white blossoms tenderly.

“I don’t mean,”—­she continued softly—­“that I have been downright wicked in a criminal sense.  Oh no!—­I haven’t anything to confess that way!  What I mean is that I haven’t been religious.  Now please let me go straight on and explain—­will you?”

He made a slight gesture of assent.

“Well now, to begin with,” she said—­“of course when I was quite a child, I was taught to say prayers, and I was taken to church on Sundays just in the usual way.  But I never could quite believe there was anyone to listen to my prayers, and going to church bored me and made me dreadfully sleepy.  All the clergymen seemed to talk and preach in exactly the same way, and they all spoke in the same sing-song voice.  I found it very dull and monotonous.  I was told that God lived up in the sky, and that He loved me very much and would take care of me always,—­but I never could make out why, if God loved me, He should not tell me so Himself, without the help of a clergyman.  Because then I should have understood things better.  I daresay it was a very wicked idea,—­but it used to come into my head like that, and I couldn’t help it.  Then, everything in my life as a child came to an end with a great crash as it were, when my father was killed.  I adored my father!  He was always kind to me,—­always tender!—­he was the only man in the world that ever loved me!  And when he was taken away suddenly from me like that, and I was told it was God’s will, I hated God!  I did really!  You know unless you are a born angel, it is natural to hate anyone who takes away the dearest and most beloved thing you have to live for, isn’t it?”

John turned his head a little away, and looked straight before him into the glowing embers of the fire.  A deep sigh involuntarily escaped him.

“I suppose it is natural!” he said, slowly—­“But we must fight against nature.  We must believe that God knows best!”

Her eyes, blue as flax-flowers, turned towards him wistfully.

“You believe that?” she asked—­“You are sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes you suffer for no fault of your own?”

At this his heart was sorely troubled within him, but he answered quietly and firmly—­