more in the square, with her flowers still in her hand,
"declined WITHOUT thanks."

No one ever quite knew what the superintendent had said to her, but
apparently the rebuff had been very hard to bear. Not content with
declining any fellowship with the poor little "work of darkness," she
had gone on in accordance with the letter of the text to reprove her;
and Erica left the house with burning cheeks, and with a tumult of angry
feeling stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry to know or
care what she was doing; she walked down the quiet square in the very
opposite direction to "Persecution Alley," and might have walked on for
an indefinite time had not some one stopped her.

"I was hoping to see you before you left," said a pleasant quiet voice
close by her. She looked up and saw Charles Osmond.

Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she became aware that she was
trembling from head to foot. A little delicate, sensitive thing, the
unsparing censure and the rude reception she had just met with had quite
upset her.

Charles Osmond retained her hand in his strong clasp, and looked
questioningly into her bright, indignant eyes.

"What is the matter, my child?" he asked.

"I am only angry," said Erica, rather breathlessly; "hurt and angry
because one of your bigots has been rude to me."

"Come in and tell me all about it," said Charles Osmond; and there
was something so irresistible in his manner that Erica at once allowed
herself to be led into one of the tall, old-fashioned houses, and taken
into a comfortable and roomy study, the nicest room she had ever been
in. It was not luxurious; indeed the Turkey carpet was shabby and
the furniture well worn, but it was home-like, and warm and cheerful,
evidently a room which was dear to its owner. Charles Osmond made her
sit down in a capacious arm chair close to the fire.

"Well, now, who was the bigot?" he said, in a voice that would have won
the confidence of a flint.

Erica told as much of the story as she could bring herself to repeat,
quite enough to show Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may be
wrought by tactless modern Christianity. He looked down very sorrowfully
at the eager, expressive face of the speaker; it was at once very white
and very pink, for the child was sorely wounded as well as indignant.
She was evidently, however, a little vexed with herself for feeling the
insult so keenly.

"It is very stupid of me," she said laughing a little; "i