“What do you want with me?”
“It was a beautiful hymn,” said Rotha, ignoring his question.
“Do you think so?” he growled, and turned his head away.
“What if one could but think it?” she said, as if speaking as much to herself as to him.
Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl.
The girl's eyes were as meek as an angel's.
“It's what I was thinking mysel', that is,” he mumbled after a pause; then added aloud with an access of irritation, “Think what?”
“That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins—pardon and peace.”
“Humph!”
“It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth.”