"I have prayed, dear, and as I pray--oh, Edith, I don't know! But nothing _stops_ my seeing. It just gets clearer. Everything fits. Little things sort of seem to come my way. If it's wrong, surely our Lord Whom I _do_ love, Edith, and Whom I have tried to serve, won't let me go wrong." "But suppose,--suppose it's a temptation?" "I know. Dad says it's the Devil. Exactly. 'They called the Master of the House Beelzebub, and how much more they of His Household?' _Everything_ fits." "Oh, Paul," she cried, "there you go again! I can't argue with you. I----" "No, because it's unanswerable. And it's been so for two thousand years." "Paul, Paul, do _pray_!" "Darling, I do pray. But what can I do? Mother says: 'Cling to the Book--Don't let go the Word,' but the Word itself seems to me to point that way. I can't help it; it does. I don't _want_ to be a Roman Catholic. I'd _hate_ to be. But, Edith, oh Edith, Edith, why is there no _answer_ when one prays?" "Paul, there is, there is!" He turned on her. "Then you pray. Now. Here. God will answer you, perhaps." "Oh, I can't, Paul. Not with you here. I wouldn't dare." He caught her hands. "Oh, darling, do. I'm so tired of begging and crying for light. I seem always to have to be the leader, and I do so want to be led." The girl's eyes filled with swift tears. "Paul, darling," she whispered.... "Well, I will." They knelt in the shadow of the pines, unashamed, and in the air there was a tremble of a sound--the ripple of the tiny wavelets on the beach beneath, and the sough of the pines above. They knelt hand in hand, like two children; and after a moment or two she prayed aloud, in a hushed whisper. "Oh God" (she said), "Thou canst see us. Thou art here. Do, do, show Paul--show us both, what is right and true, and what we ought to do. Don't let us be led astray from Thee. Don't let us be frightened of following Thee. Just let us--let us draw closer to Thee and lean harder on Thee, all the way. For Jesus Christ's sake." Sobs choked her Amen, and Paul, his eyes wet, put his arm about her. So clasped they knelt. And the little waves rippled on the shore and the wind soughed in the pines above. They walked home soberly. At the entrance to the town, Edith put another question. "Paul," she said, "tell me, haven't you _liked_ Keswick?" He was silent for a moment. Then: "Edith, shall I tell you the truth?" "Yes--and always." "Well, I've loved it so much that I've almost hated it. Our friends are so sincere, so good, and I seem to know it all so well. It's my _home_, but I'm beginning to feel myself a stranger among my own people." The girl swallowed that stupid lump that would keep rising in her throat. "Dear," she said, "will you promise me one thing?" "What?" "Promise." "You must tell me what it is first. I can't tie my hands, even for you." "Well, promise that whatever happens to you, you'll never laugh at all this."