"My heart and my prayers will be with your church, Mr. Bradley," she said; "I shall remember you and be grateful to you as long as I live, but my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army, among girls, and persuade them to work in the street when they have the time. It is not goodness alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be selfish—it is saving others that saves us. You know how that is. You have saved others." "You are right," he said. "Go with the army; you can do more there." "And, do you say so?" Florence cried. "I thought you too orthodox for that." "Not too orthodox for the truth," he replied, bowing. "Then," said Florence, "I think more of you than I did. I thought it was your ambition to build up a church, but I find that you have forgotten your creed to save a woman. I am coming oftener to hear you preach." During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the door, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity to go. The preacher looked at her, and mused upon the change that had come over her face since he had first seen her, only a short time, but a great change. The Salvation Army has a countenance and a complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and so quick, it seems, is the transformation that the coarse-featured, evil-eyed woman of today may, to-morrow, have a striking refinement. "I hope you will come frequently to my church," said Bradley, taking her hand. "Whenever I am selfish," she replied. "You young ladies have done yourselves credit," said Bradley, when Margaret Frayer had taken her leave. "Why so?" said Agnes. "Because we treated her kindly? Did you take us for heathens?" "Oh, no, but women—women are so slow to forgive." "Forgive? Why, what has she done? She simply wanted religion, and you have helped her. Oh, she might have done wrong, I don’t know. But women are more forgiving now that they have taken more of man’s privileges. They may become quite generous after a while." With Agnes it was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge. She divined the history of the girl; and in giving her hand felt that it was to one who had gone astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back. The Judge came in, to the disappointment of the preacher, who feared that, soon to be followed by William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up the old straw of family humor. But William did not come, and the Judge was in no mood for joking. He had been brooding, and his brow was dark. "Florence," he said, after exchanging a few words with Bradley, "I wish you would walk out with me." She said nothing, but went out and came back with her hat. They walked in the shade of the elms, and he remarked upon different objects, but she said nothing. "Why don’t you talk, Florence?" "Because I haven’t anything to say." "You mean that you have nothing to say to me." "I mean that it is useless to say anything to you. Shall I say something? I will. You are an unnatural father." "No, I have an unnatural son."