"A prism, in strictness, is a piece of glass cut in a particular way, so that the colourless sunbeams which pass through it are divided into their many-coloured members. But other things act as prisms,—the rain-drops in a shower—the lustres upon your church chandelier. You have seen the colours there?"
"Well, how do they do that?"
"I must take some other time to tell you,—it would be too long a matter to-night. And I doubt whether you ought to sit here any longer."
"But this Faith don't do as you say," she said, as she slowly and rather unwillingly rose from her seat. "And I don't understand how any faith can."
"This Faith must study the Bible then, and do what that says." The tone was encouraging though the voice was grave.
He was not answered; and the homeward walk was begun. But Faith stopped and turned again to look before she had gone three paces.
"I am in no hurry," Mr. Linden said,—"take your own time—only do not take cold."
Faith turned away silently again, and began trudging along the sandy road which led back to the lane. The moonlight shewed the way better now. Passing on, as they neared home one house after another shewed its glimmer of light and gave forth its cheerful sound of voices. From one, however, the sound was not cheerful. It was Squire Deacon's.
"Well, you'll see to-morrow, Cilly—if the sky don't fall,—you'll see. Folks thinks the water down to the shore's mighty deep—'way over their heads—till they've made its acquaintance; and then they find out they can wade round in it 'most anywheres."—
"What's the matter with the Squire?" said Faith with a slight laugh, as these strange statements reached her ears.