"Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it also."
"Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God?"
"I am not sure that I do."
She clasped her hands in distress. "How can you live!" she cried, almost in tears.
Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But he could not make himself stop now; he was too sincerely interested.
"There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. "If you do not feel God, I can not make you believe in him."
"Tell me how you feel; perhaps I can learn from you."
Poor Anne! she did not know how she felt, and had no words ready. Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she was asked to unfold her inmost soul in the broad garish light of day.
"I—I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble.
"Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excellent little assumption of disappointment masked by affected carelessness. "Forget what I have said; it is of small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the house, Miss Douglas?"