“Next to nothing.” “I shall be surer to find that than my own. And I will find it, if I can, that Mr. Arnold may believe I was not to blame.” “Do. But be careful.” “Don’t fear. I will be careful.” She held out her hand, as if to take leave of him, but withdrew it again with the sudden cry: “What shall I do? I thought he had left me to myself, till that night in the library.” She held down her head in silence. Then she said, slowly, in a tone of agony: “I am a slave, body and soul.—Hugh!” she added, passionately, and looking up in his face, “do you think there is a God?” Her eyes glimmered with the faint reflex from gathered tears, that silently overflowed. And now Hugh’s own poverty struck him with grief and humiliation. Here was a soul seeking God, and he had no right to say that there was a God, for he knew nothing about him. He had been told so; but what could that far-off witness do for the need of a desolate heart? She had been told so a million of times. He could not say that he knew it. That was what she wanted and needed. He was honest, and so replied: “I do not know. I hope so.” He felt that she was already beyond him; for she had begun to cry into the vague, seemingly heartless void, and say: “Is there a God somewhere to hear me when I cry?” And with all the teaching he had had, he had no word of comfort to give. Yes, he had: he had known David Elginbrod. Before he had shaped his thought, she said: “I think, if there were a God, he would help me; for I am nothing but a poor slave now. I have hardly a will of my own.” The sigh she heaved told of a hopeless oppression. “The best man, and the wisest, and the noblest I ever knew,” said Hugh, “believed in God with his whole heart and soul and strength and mind. In fact, he cared for nothing but God; or rather, he cared for everything because it belonged to God. He was never afraid of anything, never vexed at anything, never troubled about anything. He was a good man.” Hugh was surprised at the light which broke upon the character of David, as he held it before his mind’s eye, in order to describe it to Euphra. He seemed never to have understood him before. “Ah! I wish I knew him. I would go to that man, and ask him to save me. Where does he live?” “Alas! I do not know whether he is alive or dead—the more to my shame. But he lives, if he lives, far away in the north of Scotland.” She paused. “No. I could not go there. I will write to him.”