He remembered how agitated he had seen her many times in the little church at San Remo, and how, although hanging eagerly upon his preaching, she had persistently avoided anything like serious conversation with him upon the few occasions when he had found himself alone with her.
He had her Testament still in his hand, and looking down at the tear-stained page it seemed to him that there lay the clue to her melancholy.
“You have been reading the story of the woman of Samaria,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you have read that other story of her who knelt in the dust at her Saviour’s feet, and to whom He said, ‘Neither do I condemn thee.’”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything in either of those stories to sadden you more than the thought of sin and sorrow saddens all of us?”
She looked at him shrinkingly, pale as death, as if he had a dagger in his hand ready to strike her.
“No, I don’t suppose there is anything that goes home to my heart any more than to other hearts,” she said, after a pause, trying to speak carelessly. “We are all sinners. The Gospel teaches us that in every line! We are none of us altogether worthy—not even my husband, I suppose, although to me he seems a perfect Christian.”
“I can believe that he is a Christian, Mrs. Disney, and a man of strong convictions. If he had wronged anybody, I do not think he would rest till he had atoned for that wrong.”