"Of both of you," answered Paula, who had quickly turned a somewhat troubled gaze upon the water. "Natalie," she added, rather hurriedly, "there is a balm for every sorrow, a sure one. That"—she slightly emphasized the word—"is why I thought of you in connection with Mark. Ah, if he were only religious!"
"Then he would be perfect, you think." She laughed, and Paula laughed, but the merriment seemed hollow.
"Nobody can be perfect," said Paula, after the pause which had followed the unmeaning mirth. She spoke in a low tone and timidly, but for that reason all the more engagingly; "but so far as perfection can be attained, it can only be with the aid of religion."
It was one of the words in season, which Natalie had become accustomed to hear from those about her, and which from this exhorter she always liked to hear. There was an atmosphere of calm about Paula and a serenity in her face which fascinated the unbeliever. And her admonitions, if timidly uttered, were sincere. It was as though the young preacher, though longing for a convert, feared to frighten the disciple away.
Natalie bent over and kissed the girl's cheek. "Is he unhappy? Mark, I mean."
"His life is evidence that he is not happy. He wanders aimlessly. Cousin Alice built Stormpoint for him, yet he leaves it."
"His large interests compel his wanderings."
"He has agents who make them unnecessary. Cousin Alice needs him."
"You would be glad to have him home?"
Paula looked up; her sparkling eyes answered the question. There was a pause.