e only Christian _I_ have
ever known."

"So we are all pagans, except your low-lived lady's-maid! Upon my word!"

"She makes me feel, often, often," said Letty, bursting into tears, "as
if I were with Jesus himself--as if he must be in the room somewhere."

So saying, she left her, and went to put up her things. Mrs. Wardour
locked the door of the room where she sat, and refused to see or speak
to her again. Letty went away, and walked to Testbridge.

"Godfrey will do something to make her understand," she said to
herself, weeping as she walked.

Whether Godfrey ever did, I can not tell.

CHAPTER L.

WILLIAM AND MARY MARSTON.

The same day on which Turnbull opened his new shop, a man was seen on a
ladder painting out the sign above the old one. But the paint took time
to dry.

The same day, also, Mary returned to Testbridge, and, going in by the
kitchen-door, went up to her father's room, of which and of her own she
had kept the keys--to the indignation of Turnbull, who declared he did
not know how to get on without them for storage. But, for all his
bluster, he was afraid of Mary, and did not dare touch anything she had
left.

That night she spent alone in the house. But she could not sleep. She
got up and went down to the shop. It was a bright, moonlit night, and
all the house, even where the moon could not enter, was full of glimmer
and gleam, except the shop. There she lighted a candle, sat down on a
pile of goods, and gave herself up to memories of the past. Back and
back went her thoughts as far as she could send them. God was
everywhere in all the story; and the clearer she saw him there the
surer she was that she would find him as she went on. She was neither
sad nor fearful. The dead hours of the night came, that valley of the
shadow of death where faith seems to grow weary and sleep, and all the
things of the shadow wake up and come out and say, "Here we are, and
there is nothing but us and our kind in the universe!" They woke up and
came out upon Mary now, but she fought them off. Either there is
mighty, triumphant life at the root and apex of all things, or life is
not--and whence, then, the power of dreaming horrors? It is life
alone--life imperfect--that can fear; death can not fear. Even the
terror that walketh by night is a proof that I live, and that it shall
not prevail against me. And to Mary, besides her heavenly Father, her
William Marston seemed near all the time. Whereever she