“Madam,” he answered, “I do not believe that you will visit it upon them.”
“But I will,” she interrupted ruthlessly. “You are young and know little of the world. You have not yet learnt the truth of one of the oldest of proverbs—that it is well to let well alone!”
“It is a sop for the idle, that proverb,” he answered. “It is the motto for the great army of those who drift.”
“I have been making inquiries,” she said. “I find that my villagers are contented and prosperous. There are no signs of vice in the place.”
“There is such a thing,” he answered, “as being too prosperous, over-contented. The person in such a state takes life for granted. Religion is a thing he hears about, but fails to realize. He has no need of it. He becomes like the prize cattle in your park! He has a mind, but has forgotten how to use it.”
She looked at him steadily, perhaps a trifle insolently.
“How old are you, Mr. Macheson?” she asked.
“Twenty-eight,” he answered, with a slight flush.
“Twenty-eight! You are young to make yourself the judge of such things as these. You will do a great deal of mischief, I am afraid, before you are old enough to realize it.”
“To awaken those who sleep in the daytime—is that mischief?” he asked.