To Christian’s surprise, Countess made no scornful answer. She sat in silence, looking from the window with eyes that saw neither the knight who was riding past, nor the fish-woman selling salt cod to the opposite neighbour.
“Can faith not exist without confession?” she said in a low tone.
“Would it not be poor faith?”
“Why?” demanded Countess, drawing her brows together, and in a tone that was almost fierce.
“I should think there would be no love in it. And faith which had no love in it would be a very mean, shabby, worthless sort of faith.”
“I don’t see that,” said Countess stubbornly. “I believe that this book is lying on the window-seat. Can’t I do that without loving either the window-seat or the book?”
“Ah, yes, when you only believe things. But the faith which is shown in baptism is not believing a fact; it is trusting yourself, body and soul, with a Person.”
“That makes a difference, I dare say,” replied Countess, and relapsed into silence.
A week later she came into the shop, where David was busy polishing up the ornaments in stock.
“David,” she said abruptly, “what does a Christian do when he is completely perplexed, and cannot tell how to act?”