"If I get to heaven before you, Dad, I'll look down at you like this. Do you see our house? Just a teeny bit of the chimneys behind the trees there? I shall always be watching it and seeing you come in and out. I shall have stronger eyes there, you know." "We don't want to imagine you in heaven," said his father, with a short laugh. "Oh, but I love to! Fancy! Before Steppie came, I knewed nothing about it, I didn't even know that God loved me, and that Jesus came into the world to show us that He did. Do you love God very much, Dad?" "I don't think I do, my boy. I don't know much about such things." "I 'spec's you'd better ask Steppie to talk to you, same as she does to us. You see, God is my other Father, so of course He loves me. And the funny thing is, He's your Father too. Steppie will explain it to you out of the Bible." Then, as the sun streamed out of some passing clouds which cast blue shadows on the distant hills, Ruffie stretched out his tiny hand: "Oh, isn't the sky and world glorious! And God made it all for us to live in! Wasn't it kind of Him?" Justin could make no reply. These kind of conversations with Ruffie very often took place. Sometimes Justin was amused, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes interested. A little child's strong faith and perfect trust in his unseen Father must always touch and soften those who witness it. One day Justin took Anstice to task about her teaching. "Don't overdo the youngsters with religion," he said; "I have a horror of pattern prigs and precocious saints! Ruffie sometimes seems away from earth altogether. I want him to grow up a natural boy." "It is not unnatural to love and serve our Creator," said Anstice warmly. "It is the children's heritage. They compose the Kingdom of Heaven in a large majority, and are safe inside it, when so many of their elders are still outside and far away. And as for your children being prigs, it isn't in them. They would tell you they have a perfect horror of it themselves. If they're anything in the world, they're perfectly sincere and natural." He said no more. He accompanied Anstice to church, and acknowledged that he enjoyed the Rector's sermons, but he refused steadfastly to be drawn into any religious arguments. Anstice prayed for him; she felt that at present she could do no more, but she had a strong belief that prayer would accomplish what she could not. One morning, she was busy in the conservatory. She was fond of her flowers and attended to most of the plants there herself. Suddenly Neale, the butler, came to her. "There's a lady arrived in a car, asking to see you, ma'am. She won't come in till she knows if it is convenient to see you, as it is in the morning." "Did she not give her name?" Anstice inquired. Then, without waiting for a reply, she went out quickly to the hall door, wondering who it possibly could be.