just opposite me, I could see a sparrow bobbing up and down on the ivy.  Then away sailed my spirit, through the church wall, over the meadows, and into the copse; I pushed my way through the underwood, and picked up a leaf here and there, listening to the gentle voice of the wood-pigeon.  And then—­you know there is one thought into which all thoughts resolve—­I walked with you, dearest, on the hilltops by Fiesole; she, too, was there, and you both laughed at me because I tried to dig up a wild orchid with a flint, and got my hands so dirty.

Then we had that long talk about the possibility of an after-life, which began with the bulb of the orchid—­do you remember?

“Nothing is lost in Nature,” said my mother.  “There is no such thing as annihilation; death is surely transubstantiation.”

“Perhaps then, after all,” said I, “the noblest part of us, the self, that invisible core which we call soul, is just a drop, as it were, in a great soul-ocean, whose waves wrap creation, and into which we shall fall.  What’s the matter, Constantia?”

“I can’t listen to you any more, you prosy things; you make me melancholy.  Go and be waves if you like, you two; I’m going to have white wings and be an angel!”

* * * * *

“I believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth.”

These words roused me with a hard and sudden shock.  I had completely forgotten where I was; I looked about me, half dazed, and saw everyone standing except myself.  Must I, too, rise and say the Creed?  I did not hesitate, because I did not think.  I simply stood up and left the church.

After dinner I went to the rectory; I felt that my former hypocrisy and cowardice must be atoned for without delay.  Besides, as Goethe’s mother used to say, there is no need to stare at the devil, it is better to swallow him whole.  Well, I went to Mr. Dobb, and confessed myself.  He was less shocked at my disbelief than I had expected, but my profession of it troubled him considerably.  He spoke a great deal about example, about the leading of the masses, and altogether seems to hold avowed lack of faith, a greater sin than feigned belief.

Of course he had plenty to say on the subject; he seems to be an honest man, and I must admit that much of what I heard impressed me.  I envied him the ease with which he spoke, the ready-coined language he was free to use.  I could find no words in which to prove that I, too, had a religion.  I wonder, shall I ever be able to tell another what it is that I feel, as by means of a sixth sense, when earth and heaven are fairest, when poets sing their best and music is most divine, when the souls of men and women leap to their eyes and their hearts lie bare; then something within me smiles and shivers, and I say, “This—­this is God!”

Oh, it is all very well to talk of being sincere!  Again and yet again I must say it.  For the lips cannot speak what the spirit feels.  And then,—­why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at the end.  How could I go to those two old dears and say, “I cannot pray with you or go to church any more, I am an infidel.”  How could I?  I said instead, “My mother brought me up in a different faith; I tried to go to your church, but I cannot, and I think you would not wish me to act against my conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go our ways.”