“Our Father!” said the rich full voice; then it paused and was utterly silent. Dr. Richards covered his eyes with his hand, and in that silence there rose before him all the meaning of the words that had been spoken. “Our Father!” He had wished to understand why a merciful God allowed pain to exist, and God had sent pain to teach him. Was not that, indeed, _fatherly_? Mr. Clare rose from his knees, and left the room without another word, leaving the doctor still sitting with his hand over his eyes. Religion is a science, and, like all science, empirical. Dr. Richards had made his first theological experiment; and, though the needle had moved ever so slightly upon the dial of the galvanometer, the existence of the current must ever more remain for him an established fact. CHAPTER VI. THE FRAGRANCE OF TEA-ROSES. It was a source of self and mutual congratulation to Frau Anna Rolf and Karl Metzerott, that Louis’ grief for Freddy’s death seemed to draw him nearer to Annie. When he was not at Dr. Richards’s, after work hours, he was quite sure to be taking long walks with her; and it really seemed as if their darling scheme were on the eve of accomplishment. “As for that little chit of Randolph’s, he’s quite forgotten her,” said Karl Metzerott; “I haven’t heard her name out of his mouth since she came home;” which, Karl’s own nature might have warned him, is not invariably a token of forgetfulness. “It goes to my heart to see the boy looking so sad and worn,” said Frau Anna; “but my Aenchen will comfort him; and I could not wish her a better husband.” The shoemaker smiled proudly. “There’s no fault to be found with Louis,” he said, “except that he lets this man Clare lead him about by the nose; and the same may be said of your Fritz, Frau Anna.” “Fritz will fight when the time comes,” replied the other, her thin face and wild, dark eyes glowing with repressed enthusiasm. “He is all for peace now, but when the signal is given he will remember that he has a wife and child to defend, and a father’s death to avenge.” “He has _more_,” murmured George below his breath. No one heard him, and if his heavy features looked a shade more sullen, nobody was sufficiently at leisure to observe it; indeed, as we know, George had never been troubled with overmuch observation. Of a reserved, sullen temperament, too sluggish for mischief, but immovably obstinate if crossed or contradicted, and subject to occasional fits of almost delirious rage, his education had consisted almost solely of that judicious letting alone, a little of which is considered so advantageous. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” was the established rule for treating him; yet, even half understood as he was, it should have seemed a dangerous experiment thus to train and drill him into the thought of revenge.