He sighed and closed his book, drank the last of his half-pint of beer, and rose to go. Poppie seemed to feel that she had displeased him, for she followed without a word. They went across the fields to Hampstead, and then across more fields to the Finchley Road. In passing the old church, the deeper notes of the organ reached their ears.
"There," said Poppie; "I suppose that's God making his thunder. Ain't it, daddie?"
"No. It's not that," answered Spelt.
"It's there he keeps it, anyhow," said Poppie. "I've heard it coming out many a time."
"Was you never in one o' them churches?" asked her father.
"No," answered Poppie.
"Would you like to go?" he asked again, with the hope that something might take hold of her.
"If you went with me," she said.
Now Mr. Spelt had heard of Mr. Fuller from Mr. Kitely, and had been once to hear him preach. He resolved to take Poppie to his church that evening.
My reader will see that the child had already made some progress. She talked at least. How this began I cannot explain. No fresh sign of thought or of conscience in a child comes into my notice but I feel it like a miracle—a something that cannot be accounted for save in attributing it to a great Thought that can account for it.