It was Sunday, during which Malcolm lay at the point of death some three stories above his sister’s room. There, in the morning, while he was at the worst, she was talking with Clementina, who had called to see whether she would not go and hear the preacher of whom he had spoken with such fervour. Florimel laughed. “You seem to take everything for gospel Malcolm says, Clementina!” “Certainly not,” returned Clementina, rather annoyed. “Gospel now-a-days is what nobody disputes and nobody heeds; but I do heed what Malcolm says, and intend to find out, if I _can_, whether there is any reality in it. I thought you had a high opinion of your groom!” “I would take his word for anything a man’s word can be taken for,” said Florimel. “But you don’t set much store by his judgment?” “Oh, I daresay he’s right. But I don’t care for the things you like so much to talk with him about. He’s a sort of poet, anyhow, and poets must be absurd. They are always either dreaming or talking about their dreams. They care nothing for the realities of life. No--if you want advice, you must go to your lawyer or clergyman, or some man of common sense, neither groom nor poet.” “Then, Florimel, it comes to this--that this groom of yours is one of the truest of men, and one who possessed your father’s confidence, but you are so much his superior that you are capable of judging him, and justified in despising his judgment.” “Only in practical matters, Clementina.” “And duty towards God is with you such a practical matter that you cannot listen to anything he has got to say about it.” Florimel shrugged her shoulders. “For my part, I would give all I have to know there was a God worth believing in.” “Clementina!” “What?” “Of course there is a God. It is very horrible to deny it.” “Which is worse--to deny _it_, or to deny _him_? Now, I confess to doubting _it_--that is, the fact of a God; but you seem to me to deny God himself, for you admit there is a God--think it very wicked to deny that, and yet you don’t take interest enough in him to wish to learn anything about him. You won’t _think_, Florimel. I don’t fancy you ever really _think_.” Florimel again laughed. “I am glad,” she said, “that you don’t judge me _incapable_ of that high art. But it is not so very long since Malcolm used to hint something much the same about yourself, my lady!” “Then he was quite right,” returned Clementina. “I am only just beginning to think, and if I can find a teacher, here I am, his pupil.” “Well, I suppose I can spare my groom quite enough to teach you all he knows,” Florimel said, with what Clementina took for a marked absence of expression. She reddened. But she was not one to defend herself before her principles. “If he can, why should he not?” she said. “But it was of his friend Mr Graham I was thinking---not himself.” “You cannot tell whether he has got anything to teach you.”