John closely searched her eyes. Did she remember all he had said about the woman with God’s good gift of understanding? Did she realise the confession it would entail if he admitted--as he believed--that she was? She was young, perhaps--a girl, a child, a baby--just twenty-one. But the understanding which is the gift of God, comes independently of experience. Like genius, it is a gift and of just such a nature. Absolute simplicity is the source of it, and with it, it brings the reward of youth, keeping the heart young no matter the years. Experience will show you that the world is full of evil--evil motives and evil deeds; it will teach you that evil is said of everyone, even the best. But with God’s good gift of understanding, you have the heart of a child, knowing nothing yet finding the good in everything. To such a one, no secrets are possible, no deeds can lie hid; for no man does evil because he would, but because it rises stronger against the innermost will of him. And so few are there with the gift to understand this, that confession is seldom made. And for John to tell her that she had this gift, was to make admission of all he had learnt that Easter Sunday. Could it be that she asked for that reason? Did she wish to know? In his own way, he had meant to tell her; but not like this. And so he searched her eyes; but searched in vain. "Why do you ask?" he said at length. "Because--if you think I have any understanding at all, don’t you think I should understand, even if you told me you lived at----" She could not think of a poor enough neighbourhood where people might live. She scarcely knew any. "Shepherd’s Bush?" he suggested. "Well--yes--Shepherd’s Bush." "And so you want to know where I do live?" "Yes." "Why?" She looked up at him quite honestly. "Well--pride, I suppose. We’re good friends. I hope we are. I’ve never had a friend before. I think I should tell you everything, and I expect I feel hurt because you don’t tell me. I’m sure you have a good reason for not letting my people know, but that hasn’t prevented me from keeping you as my friend against all their wishes. They don’t understand, I admit. But I believe I should. I’m sure I should." Her hand in its white glove was resting on the door of the hansom in front of her. For a moment he looked at it, and then, with heart beating, in fear, joy, apprehension--a thousand emotions all flowing into one--he took it in his and pressed it reverently, then let it go. "I know you would," he replied in his breath. And then he told her. Did she remember Wrigglesworth’s? Would she ever forget it? Those high-backed seats, the sawdust on the floor, the poll-parrot in its cage in the middle of the room! And, then, who could forget the name of Wrigglesworth?