n Osmond, argued very warmly on the other side; the poor little
fraulein was grieved beyond measure, and defended her faith gallantly,
though, as she feared, very ineffectually. Her arguments seemed
altogether extinguished by Erica's remorseless logic; she was not nearly
so clever, and her very earnestness seemed to trip her up and make all
her sentences broken and incomplete. They discussed the subject till
Erica was hoarse, and at last from very weariness she fell asleep while
the Lutheran was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul.

She slept for two or three hours; when she woke, the room was flooded
with silvery moonlight, the wooden cross which hung over the German's
bed stood out black and distinct, but the bed was empty. Erica looked
round the room uneasily, and saw a sight which she never forgot. The
fraulein was kneeling beside the window, and even the cold moonlight
could not chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her face. She was a
plain, ordinary little woman, but her face was absolutely transformed;
there was something so beautiful and yet so unusual in her expression
that Erica could not speak or move, but lay watching her almost
breathlessly. The spiritual world about which they had been speaking
must be very real indeed to Thekla Sonnenthal! Was it possible that
this was the work of delusion? While she mused, her friend rose, came
straight to her bedside, and bent over her with a look of such love and
tenderness that Erica, though not generally demonstrative, could not
resist throwing her arms round her neck.

"Dear Sunnyvale! You look just like your name!" she exclaimed, "all
brightness and humility! What have you been doing to grow so like
Murillo's Madonna?"

"I thought you were asleep," said the fraulein. "Good night,
Herzolattchen, or rather good morning, for the Easter day has begun."

Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for saying nothing more definite,
but in the ordinary sense of the word she did not have a good night,
for long after Thekla Sonnenthal was asleep, and dreaming of her German
home, Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking of the faith which
to some was such an intense reality. Had there been anything excited or
unreal about her companion's manner, she would not have thought
twice about it; but her tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her very
remarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal was strangely devoid of
imagination; she was a matter-of-fact little person, not a