In old times not a few houses in Scotland held a certain tiny room, built for the head of the family, to be his closet for prayer: it was, I believe, with the notion of such a room in his head, that the laird had called his museum his closet; and he was more right than he meant to be; for in that chamber he did his truest worship--truest as to the love in it, falsest as to its object; for there he worshiped the god vilest bred of all the gods, bred namely of man's distrust in the Life of the universe. And now here also were two met together to worship; for from this time the laird, disclosing his secret, made George free of his sanctuary. George was by this time able to take a genuine interest in the collection. But he was much amused, sometimes annoyed, with the behavior of the laird in his closet: he was more nervous and touchy over his things than a she-bear over her cubs. Of all dangers to his darlings he thought a woman the worst, and had therefore seized with avidity the chance of making that room a hidden one, the possibility of which he had spied almost the moment he first entered it. He became, if possible, fonder of his things than ever, and flattered himself he had found in George a fellow-worshiper: George's exaggerated or pretended appreciation enhanced his sense of their value. CHAPTER XXIII ON THE MOOR. Alexa had a strong shaggy pony, which she rode the oftener that George came so often; taking care to be well gone before he arrived on his beautiful horse. One lovely summer evening she had been across the moor a long way, and was returning as the sun went down. A glory of red molten gold was shining in her face, so that she could see nothing in front of her, and was a little startled by a voice greeting her with a respectful good-evening. The same moment she was alongside of the speaker in the blinding veil of the sun. It was Andrew walking home from a village on the other side of the moor. She drew rein, and they went together. “What has come to you, Mr. Ingram?” she said; “I hear you were at church last Sunday evening!” “Why should I not be, ma'am?” asked Andrew. “For the reason that you are not in the way of going.” “There might be good reason for going once, or for going many times, and yet not for going always!” “We won't begin with quarreling! There are things we shall not agree about!” “Yes; one or two--for a time, I believe!” returned Andrew. “What did you think of Mr. Rackstraw's sermon? I suppose you went to hear _him_.'” “Yes, ma'am--at least partly.” “Well?” “Will you tell me first whether you were satisfied with Mr. Rackstraw's teaching? I know you were there.” “I was quite satisfied.” “Then I don't see reason for saying anything about it.” “If I am wrong, you ought to try to set me right!” “The prophet Elisha would have done no good by throwing his salt into the running stream. He cast it, you will remember, into the spring!” “I do not understand you.”