“Yes!  I am sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes me suffer for no fault of my own!”

His voice, always soft and mellow, dropped to a tenderer cadence, as,—­like a true servant of the Master he served,—­he faithfully asserted his belief, that even in personal sorrow, the Divine will is always a Divine blessing.

A pause of silence ensued.  Then Maryllia went on somewhat hesitatingly—­

“Well, I was wicked, you see!  I could not believe that God meant it for the best in killing my father!  And I know that my father himself never could understand that God was at all good in allowing my mother to die when I was born.  So that I was quite set against God, when, after my father’s death, Uncle Fred and his wife came and took me away to live with them, and adopted me as their daughter.  And living with them, and being always surrounded by the society they entertained, made me forget religion altogether.  They never went to church,—­neither did any of the people they called their friends.  Indeed nobody I ever met in all the ‘sets’ of London, or Paris, or New York ever seemed to think of God or a future life at all.  Some of them went in for what they called ‘spiritualism’ and deceived each other in the most terrible way!  I never heard people tell so many dreadful lies!  They used to joke about it afterwards.  But no one ever seemed to think that religion,—­real religion—­real Christianity—­was at all necessary or worth talking about.  They called it an ‘exploded myth.’  When I met Cicely Bourne I found that she believed in it.  And I was quite surprised!  Because she had such a hard life, and she had always been so cruelly treated, that I wondered how she could believe in anything.  But she told me that when she knew she had a voice and a gift for music, she used to pray that an angel might be sent to help her,—­and when I asked her—­’Did the angel come?’ she said that God had sent me as the angel!  Of course it wasn’t true, but it was very sweet of her to say it!”

She paused.  Walden was quite silent.  Leaning his elbow on the raised head of her couch, he shaded his brow with one hand, thus partially covering his eyes from the glow of the fire.  There were tears in those eyes, and he was afraid she would see them.

“Cicely was always so brave and contented,”—­she presently continued—­“And as I learned to know more of her I began to wonder if really after all, her religion helped her?  And then there came a time of great worry and trouble for me—­and—­I came home here to try and find peace and rest—­and I met you!”

He moved restlessly, but said nothing.

“To meet you was an event in my life!” she said, turning. towards him a little, and laying her hand timidly on his coat sleeve—­“It was really!”

He looked at her,—­and a wave of warmth passed over his face.

“Was it?” he murmured.

“Of course it was!” she declared,—­and almost she laughed—­“You won’t understand me, I daresay!—­but to meet you. for the first time is a kind of event to most people!  They begin to think about you,—­ they can’t help it!  You are so different from the ordinary sort of clergyman,—­I don’t know how or why,—­but you are!”