To Christian's surprise, Countess made no scornful answer. She sat in silence, looking from the window with eyes that saw neither the knight who was riding past, nor the fish-woman selling salt cod to the opposite neighbour.

"Can faith not exist without confession?" she said in a low tone.

"Would it not be poor faith?"

"Why?" demanded Countess, drawing her brows together, and in a tone that was almost fierce.

"I should think there would be no love in it. And faith which had no love in it would be a very mean, shabby, worthless sort of faith."

"I don't see that," said Countess stubbornly. "I believe that this book is lying on the window-seat. Can't I do that without loving either the window-seat or the book?"

"Ah, yes, when you only believe things. But the faith which is shown in baptism is not believing a fact; it is trusting yourself, body and soul, with a Person."

"That makes a difference, I dare say," replied Countess, and relapsed into silence.

A week later she came into the shop, where David was busy polishing up the ornaments in stock.

"David," she said abruptly, "what does a Christian do when he is completely perplexed, and cannot tell how to act?"

"Well, I don't exactly know," said David, looking perplexed himself.

"Never was like that, so far as I know. Leastwise--No, I couldn't just say I ever have been."

"O happy man! Some Christians are, sometimes, I suppose?"

"I should think so. I don't know."

"What wouldst thou do, then, if thou wert in a slough from which thou sawest not the way out?"

"Why, I think--I should pray the Lord to show me the way out. I don't see what else I could do."

"And if no answer came?"

"Then I should be a bit afraid it meant that I'd walked in myself, and hadn't heeded His warnings. Sometimes, I think, when folks do that, He leaves them to flounder awhile before He helps them out."

"That won't do this time."

"Well, if that's not it, then maybe it would be because I wanted to get out on my own side, and wouldn't see His hand held out on the other.

The Lord helps you out in His way, not yours: and that often means, up the steeper-looking bank of the two."

Countess was silent. David applied himself to bending the pin of a brooch, which he thought rather too straight.

"Is it ever right to do wrong?" she said suddenly.

"Why, no!--how could it be?" answered David, looking up.

"You put me deeper in the slough, every word you say. I will go no further to-day."

And she turned and walked away.

"Christie," said David to his wife that evening, "thou and I must pray for our mistress."

"Why, what's the matter with her?"

"I don't know. She's in some trouble; and I think it is not a little trouble. Unless I mistake, it is trouble of a weary, wearing sort, that she goes round and round in, and can't see the way out."

"But what are we to ask for, if we know nothing?"

"Dear heart! ask the Lord to put it right. He knows the way out; He does not want us to tell Him."

A fortnight elapsed before any further conversation took place. At the end of that time Ash Wednesday came, and David and Christian went to church as usual. The service was half over, when, to their unspeakable astonishment, they perceived Countess standing at the western door, watching every item of the ceremonies, with an expression on her face which was half eager, half displeased, but wholly disturbed and wearied.

She seemed desirous to avoid being seen, and slipped out the instant the ma.s.s was over.

"Whatever brought her there?" asked Christian.

David shook his head.

"I expect it was either the Lord or the Devil," he said. "Let us ask Him more earnestly to bring her out of the slough on the right side."

"Did you see me in All Hallows this morning?" asked Countess abruptly, as they sat beside the fire that night. The children were in bed, and Olaf lying on the hearth.

"Ay, I did," replied Christian; and her tone added--"to my surprise."

"What are those things for there?"

"What things?"

"A number of dolls, all painted and gilt."

"Do you mean the holy images?"

"I mean the images. I don't believe in the holiness."

"They are images of the blessed saints."

"What are they for?" demanded Countess, knitting her brows.

"The priest says they are to remind us, and are helps to prayer."

"To whose prayers?" said Countess disdainfully. "No woman in England prays more regularly than I; but I never wanted such rubbish as that to help me."

"Oh, they don't help me," said David. "I never pay any attention to them; I just pray straight up."

"I don't understand praying to G.o.d in the House of Baal. 'Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.'"

"But they say the Church has loosed that command now. And of course we can't set ourselves up above the Church."

"What on earth do you mean? Art thou G.o.d, to kill and to make alive, that thou shouldst style the keeping of His command 'setting one's self above the Church?' The Church shall never guide me, if she speak contrary to G.o.d."