"Yes," said Winifred, "we were pagans, I suppose. But oh, Adèle, God is so good to forgive! It seems as though He were not looking at it at all—as if it had never been."
Adèle looked at her friend narrowly. "Winnie," she said at length, solemnly, "I know what has happened. You are converted."
Winifred opened her eyes in surprise. She had not thought to so define her new experience. Adèle went on:
"We don't talk much about it in our church, you know. But I used to go sometimes with old Auntie Bloom—she was so blind she couldn't see the sidewalk—to a little Methodist church of some sort, Free, or Reformed, or something, and they made a great deal of that. Auntie Bloom used to get rather excited over it herself sometimes when she 'testified.' I used to duck my head when she waved her arms about. 'A new creature!' she used to shout. 'There's nothing like being a new creature!'" And Adèle quoted the old lady with good-natured mimicry.
Winifred's face glowed. "No," she said, "there's nothing like it!—if that is what has happened to me."
Adèle looked at the happy face covetously. "You look as though it were good, Winnie," she said, and added meditatively: "I think it is all true about it. But you know, Winnie, when I was confirmed I really meant to be good. It was so solemn, and I thought I never should forget that dear old bishop's hand on my head. But I haven't turned out much of a saint, you know, dear."
"I never thought you were wicked, Adèle," said Winifred.
"Well, I never robbed a bank," said Adèle, "but there's no question about my being 'this worldly' enough."
Winifred did not know just how to answer this. It seemed a charge that would cover both their previous lives. In a moment's silence a sweet-toned clock on the mantel softly struck a half hour.
"Oh, I must be gone!" cried Miss Forrester, "and we haven't talked about half—"