“They are true, and, while men last, they always will be true.”

“Oh!  Arthur,” she answered, earnestly, and for the first time addressing him in conversation by his Christian name, “how limited your trust must be in the mercy of a Creator, whose mercy is as wide as the ocean, that you can talk like that!  You speak of me, too, as better than yourself—­how am I better?  I have my bad thoughts and do bad things as much as you, and, though they may not be the same, I am sure they are quite as black as yours, since everybody must be responsible according to their characters and temptations.  I try, however, to trust in God to cover my sins, and believe that, if I do my best, He will forgive me, that is all.  But I have no business to preach to you, who are older and wiser than I am.”

“If,” he broke in, laying his hand involuntarily upon her own, “you knew—­although I have never spoken of them to any one before, and could not speak of them to anybody but yourself—­how these things weigh upon my mind, you would not say that, but would try to teach me your faith.”

“How can I teach you, Arthur, when I have so much to learn myself?” she answered, simply, and from that moment, though she did not know it as yet, she loved him.

This conversation—­a very curious one, Arthur thought to himself afterwards, for two young people on a spring morning—­having come to an end, nothing more was said for some while, and they took their way down the hill, varying the route in order to pass through the little hamlet of Bratham.  Under a chestnut-tree that stood upon the village green, Arthur noticed, not a village blacksmith, but a small crowd, mostly composed of children, gathered round somebody.  On going to see who it was, he discovered a battered-looking old man with an intellectual face, and the remnants of a gentlemanlike appearance, playing on the violin.  A very few touches of his bow told Arthur, who knew something of music, that he was in the presence of a performer of no mean merit.  Seeing the quality of his two auditors, and that they appreciated his performance, the player changed his music, and from a village jig passed to one of the more difficult opera airs, which he executed in brilliant fashion.

“Bravo!” cried Arthur, as the last notes thrilled and died away; “I see you understand how to play the fiddle.”

“Yes, sir, and so I should, for I have played first violin at Her Majesty’s Opera before now.  Name what you like, and I will play it you.  Or, if you like it better, you shall hear the water running in a brook, the wind passing through the trees, or the waves falling on the beach.  Only say the word.”

Arthur thought for a moment.

“It is a beautiful day, let us have a contrast—­give us the music of a storm.”

The old man considered a while.

“I understand, but you set a difficult subject even for me,” and taking up his bow he made several attempts at beginning.  “I can’t do it,” he said, “set something else.”