‘Yes it was,’ said Mary; ‘I thought I must die; but Christ has given me peace.’
These words were spoken with that long-breathed sigh with which we always speak of peace,—a sigh that told of storms and sorrows past,—the sighing of the wave that falls spent and broken on the shores of eternal rest. There was a little pause in the conversation, and then Verginie raised her head and spoke in a sprightlier tone.
‘Well, my little fairy cat,—my white doe,—I have come to you. Poor Verginie wants something to hold to her heart; let me have you,’ she said, throwing her arms round Mary.
‘Dear, dear Verginie, indeed you shall,’ said Mary; ‘I will love you dearly, and pray for you. I always have prayed for you ever since the first day I knew you.’
‘I knew it,—I felt your prayers in my heart. Mary, I have many thoughts that I dare not tell to any one, lately,—but I cannot help feeling that some are real Christians who are not in the true Church. You are as true a saint as Saint Catharine; indeed, I always think of you when I think of our dear lady; and yet they say there is no salvation out of the Church.’
This was a new view of the subject to Mary, who had grown up with the familiar idea that the Romish Church was Babylon and anti-Christ, and who had during the conversation been revolving the same surmises with regard to her friend. She turned her grave, blue eyes on Madame de Frontignac, with a somewhat surprised look, which melted into a half-smile. But the latter still went on with a puzzled air, as if trying to talk herself out of some mental perplexity. ‘Now, Burr is a heretic,—and more than that, he is an infidel,—he has no religion in his heart, I saw that often,—it made me tremble for him. It ought to have put me on my guard,—but you, dear Mary, you love Jesus as your life. I think you love Him just as much as sister Agatha, who was a saint. The Abbé says that there is nothing so dangerous as to begin to use our reason in religion,—that if we once begin we never know where it may carry us; but I can’t help using mine a very little. I must think there are some saints that are not in the true Church.’
‘All are one who love Christ,’ said Mary; ‘we are one in Him.’
‘I should not dare to tell the Abbé,’ said Madame de Frontignac; and Mary queried in her heart whether Dr. Hopkins would feel satisfied that she could bring this wanderer to the fold of Christ, without undertaking to batter down the walls of her creed; and yet, there they were, the Catholic and the Puritan, each strong in her respective faith, yet melting together in that embrace of love and sorrow, joined in the great communion of suffering. Mary took up her Testament, and read the fourteenth of John:—
‘Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me; in my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you; and if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am there you may be also.’