may, but must infer that it is directed by a pilot.  And if you look up at the sky and contemplate the well-ordered courses of the stars—­when you see how everything on earth, great and small, obeys eternal laws and unerringly tends to certain preordained ends and issues, you may and must infer the existence of a ruling hand.  Whose then but that of the Great Pilot of the universe—­the Almighty Godhead.—­Do you like my illustration?”

“Very much.  But it only proves what I knew before.”

“Nevertheless, you must, I think, be pleased to find it so beautifully expressed.”

“Certainly.”

“And must admire the wise man who thought out the comparison.  Yes?—­ Well, that man again was one of those whom you call heathen, who believed as we believe, and who at the same time worked out the evidence of the foundations of his faith for you as well as himself.  And we, the later disciples of Plato—­[Known as the school of the Neo-Platonists]—­have gone even further than our master, and in many respects are much nearer to you Christians than you perhaps suspect.  You see at once, of course, that we are no more inclined than you to conceive of the existence of the world and the destiny of man as independent of a God?  However, I dare say you still think that your divinity and ours are as far asunder as the east from the west.  But can you tell me where any difference lies?”

“I do not know,” said Ague uneasily.  “I am only an ignorant girl; and who can learn the names even of all your gods?”

“Very true,” said Olympius.  “There is great Serapis, whose temple you saw yesterday; there is Apollo, to whom Karnis prefers to offer sacrifice; there is Isis the bountiful, and her sister Nephthys, whose lament you and my young friend sing together so thrillingly; and besides these there are more immortals than I could name while Gorgo—­who is leading your little brother to the lake out there—­walked ten times from the shore to us and back; and yet—­and yet my child, your God is ours and ours is yours.”

“No, no, He is not, indeed!” cried Agne with increasing alarm.

“But listen,” Olympius went on, with the same kind urgency but with extreme dignity, “and answer my questions simply and honestly.  We are agreed, are we not?—­that we perceive the divinity in the works of his creation, and even in his workings in our own souls.  Then which are the phenomena of nature in which you discern Him as especially near to you?  You are silent.  I see, you have outlived your school-days and do not choose to answer to an uninvited catechism.  And yet the things I wish you to name are lovely in themselves and dear to your heart; and if only you did not keep your soft lips so firmly closed, but would give me the answer I ask for, you would remember much that is grand and beautiful.  You would speak of the pale light of dawn, the tender flush that tinges the clouds as the glowing day-star rises from the waves,