‘We have not met to-night to discuss religion,’ said Rhoda, as she placed his cup of tea before him, ‘and you would never convert me if we had. You may remember that was one of the matters we used to argue about in the past, and finally agreed that each of us was to have our own way. But I quite agree with you, that a duty performed from the fear of man’s opinion, or of future punishment, is just worth nothing in the eyes of God. There is only one person we have to please, or to account for our actions to, and that is Himself.’ ‘You used not to think so much of God when I first knew you, Rhoda,’ said Frederick, ‘or, at all events, I do not remember ever hearing you speak of Him.’ The tears filled Rhoda’s eyes. ‘No, perhaps not. But things that have happened since then may have drawn my thoughts more that way. You must feel yourself, Fred, that when one knows trouble and loss, one naturally goes to Heaven for comfort. It has been the same with you. That is why people say that it is sent to turn us to God.’ ‘Yes, for such as I, perhaps, Rhoda, who was so selfishly absorbed in my own joy as to forget the unhappiness I caused to others--I seemed to have no resource but to devote the rest of my life to Heaven. But you are young, and your loss has not been like mine! I have had to give up a wife who was far too good for me, whilst you lost only a most worthless friend, unworthy of the name, who did his best to ensure your destruction with his own.’ ‘Let us talk of what we were doing this afternoon,’ responded the girl, quietly. ‘I have thought of nothing else since we parted. It is so dreadful, so very, very sad; so terrible for you to hear so suddenly, and when you had no idea of such a thing. You told me that you had applied for counsel to your fellow-priests, and all they could advise you was to have patience. Patience for _what_, Frederick?’ ‘For nothing, Rhoda. Patience to see the murderer of my poor wife walking about the world as usual, beloved by his family, respected by his friends, and honoured by his fellow-men. That is all. I may live for the next fifty years--so may he--eating my heart out to know my great wrong goes unavenged, and pacifying myself with prayer the while--prayer that my enemy may find grace hereafter, I suppose, as well as here.’ ‘Fred,’ said Rhoda, leaning her elbows on the table opposite to him, and looking him steadily in the face, ‘if you had your whole will in this matter, what would you do?’ ‘Hang the brute fifty times, and gloat over his agony all the while.’ ‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘I would, Rhoda, I would. What! spare him who had no mercy on my lost darling? You do not know me.’ ‘I think I do, better than you know yourself. You feel like that now, certainly, but when it came to actually _doing_ it, you would draw back and say, “This is not my work. Leave him to God.”’ ‘And let my darling lie in her bloody grave unavenged? Never!’