"But are you of your old faith?" John said. "Still a sincere Catholic?"
"If you take Catholic in its original sense, certainly. I am a Universalist. I believe everything—and nothing. Let us change the subject." The contemptuous scepticism of his manner altered, as he inquired after Mrs. Halifax and the children. "No longer children now, I suppose?"
"Scarcely. Guy and Walter are as tall as yourself; and my daughter—"
"Your daughter?"—with a start—"oh yes, I recollect. Baby Maud. Is she at all like—like—"
"No."
Neither said more than this; but it seemed as if their hearts warmed to one another, knitted by the same tender remembrance.
We drove home. Lord Ravenel muffled himself up in his furs, complaining bitterly of the snow and sleet.
"Yes, the winter is setting in sharply," John replied, as he reined in his horses at the turnpike gate. "This will be a hard Christmas for many."
"Ay, indeed, sir," said the gate-keeper, touching his hat.
"And if I might make so bold—it's a dark night and the road's lonely—" he added, in a mysterious whisper.