The next week I hear that one of the pastor's flock, or perhaps the very preacher himself, has been guilty of some glaring breach of common honesty. Does the man mean me to believe--does he believe himself--what he told me from the pulpit only a few days earlier? Romans and English, all are alike. I find the most zealous professors of religion in both communions guilty of acts with which I, who profess no religion at all, would scorn to sully my conscience. I have seen only one man who seems to me really honest and anxious to find out the truth, and he is about where I am; only that his mind is deeper and stronger than mine, and therefore he suffers more." "But Edward!" "Oh, Edward! He is a Protestant after your own heart. But he could not enter into my feelings at all. He is one of your simple, honest folks, who believe what they are taught, and do not trouble themselves about the parts of the puzzle not fitting." "Philip, I do not know what to say to you," answered his sister, candidly. "I do not think we ought to look at other people, and take our religion from what they do, or do not do, but only from God Himself. If you would read the Bible"-- "I have read it," he interrupted. "And do you find nothing to satisfy you there?" asked Celia, in surprise. "I will tell you what I find. Very ancient writings, and very beautiful language, which I admire exceedingly; but nothing upon which I can rely." "Not in God's Word?" "How do I know that it is God's Word? How can I be sure that there is a God at all?" Celia was silent. Such questions had never suggested themselves to her mind before, and she knew not how to deal with them. At length she said-- "Philip, I believe in one God, who is my Father, and orders all things for me; and who gave His Son Jesus Christ to die for me, instead of my dying for my own sins. Is this so difficult to believe?" "I believe that you believe it," said Philip, smiling. "But you do not believe it yourself?" she asked, with a baffled feeling. "I have told you," he said, "that I believe nothing." "Philip," she answered, softly, "I do not understand your feelings, and I do not know what to say to you. I must ask my Father. I will lay it before Him to-night; and as He shall give me wisdom I will talk with you again." So she closed the subject, not knowing that the quiet certainty of conviction expressed in her last words had made a deeper impression upon Philip than any argument which could have been used to him. "Come in!" said Lady Ingram, that afternoon, in reply to Celia's gentle tap at her door. "I thought it was you, _ma chère_. I am glad you are come, for I have something to say to you." "Yes, Madam," responded Celia, resigning herself to another lecture.