"But if that be so, Elfie, God can make them all good without our help?"
"Yes, but I suppose he chooses to do it with our help, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda with equal naïveté and gravity.
"But is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling,--"rather the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?"
"No," said Fleda,--"everybody has something to do with it, the Bible says so; ministers must do it in their way and other people in other ways; everybody has his own work. Don't you remember the parable of the ten talents, Mr. Carleton?"
Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute.
"I do not know the Bible quite as well as you do, Elfie," he said then,--"nor as I ought to do."
Elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like,--a look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness which she did not venture to put into words. It had not for that the less power. But he did not choose to prolong the conversation. They rose up and began to walk homeward, Elfie thinking with all the warmth of her little heart that she wished very much Mr. Carleton knew the Bible better; divided between him and "that disciple" whom she and Hugh had been talking about.
"I suppose you are very busy now, Elfie," observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence.
"O yes!" said Fleda. "Hugh and I are as busy as we can be. We are busy every minute."
"Except when you are on some chase after pleasure?"