"Did you preach well?" she asked, after a pause. There was irony in her tones.
The preacher passed a hand across his eyes, and shuddered.
"I—thought so—at the time," he murmured.
"Ah, well, I have missed something, then. Some day—when the sunshine is gone—I am coming to hear you. You are in love with Hell, aren't you?"
In that moment Gabriel feared, not for his retreating faith, but for the girl's safety. The years were slow to loosen their hold on him, and he could not see how impiety—childish though it was—could escape the summary vengeance of Heaven. But nothing happened to the girl-woman who was seated on the pine-log, her feet gathered under her skirts; and the preacher breathed more freely. Old habit rushed in, and the words slipped out of his mouth.
"Greta Rotherson," said he, "are you prepared to die? Have you ever thought of eternal flames——"
"Ready to die? Not a bit. I'm much too fond of life."
Gabriel Hirst could find no answer. But he looked at her face, and he knew she could mean no wrong.
"Can I come to see you?" he said abruptly.
"Come to see us? Yes. We are dull in this stupid village of yours, where every one looks on us with suspicion, just because we come from the south. But—Mr. Hirst—you won't mind my saying something?" Her tone was graver now, almost supplicating. "Father doesn't want to be converted, and he won't see you if you insist upon it. Do you understand? Come just as a friend, and talk like—like a man."