"I have rubbers," and she held out one foot. They plunged into a country road and walked steadily on. Both were accomplished pedestrians, and having found out that for some unknown reason her husband had rather walk than drive, Derrice usually expressed a preference for the former exercise. For some distance she walked a little ahead of him, and, in order to escape the slush of the road, traversed the length of an icy ridge, her hands in her jacket pockets, her body carefully balanced. When she paused to allow a muddy wagon to pass, he caught up to her. "Derrice," he said, "let us go back. You are as pale as a ghost." "No, no,--it is only that I cannot help thinking about yesterday." "My darling, suppose I had been drowned." "Drowned--" and she stopped and turned to him in blank horror. Then she lifted her eyes to the chill, blue sky above them. A new world was opening on her. She might have been left alone on its threshold, left alone to struggle with the problems of life and death, and human mysteries with which she had been confronted in her swift transition from girlhood to womanhood. She could not answer him, and with a dumb and mournful gesture continued her walk. "Death is to a Christian only the closing of the eyes," he went on, softly, "a waking up in an atmosphere infinitely more happy than any earthly one." She brushed away the tears from her eyes. She did not understand him. "My body would have been in the river, my soul with God." "And I,--what should I have done?" she asked, wildly. "Derrice, do you know what I resolved yesterday?" "No, Justin." "That, God helping me, I would leave no stone unturned to secure your soul's salvation." "My soul's salvation,--am I then so wicked?" "No, no, not wicked, but almost spotless and innocent to human eyes, yet all--all are guilty in the eye of infinite holiness." "If I had been drowned in Southern California, where would my soul have been?" A mute agony took possession of him, and in spite of the icy wind great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. "I do not wish to pain you," she said, earnestly, "but I want to know. Am I to go to one place and you to another?" After a time he found his voice. "Day and night I have no peace. Walking the street, sitting at home, in the midst of my business, my heart goes up to God,--save my darling from the lions." "Then your religion is stronger than your love?" It was. His Puritanism was ingrained with his very being. "My love is stronger on account of my religion," he said, warmly. "Can you not understand that reverence for God and a pure system of faith heighten and do not lessen one's moral obligation toward one's fellow creatures?" "It has a reasonable sound," she said, wistfully, "but I do not understand fully about these things. Will you teach me?"