"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of that, for what could he do?" "You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." "Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." "He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching apparatus this afternoon." "Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to try again. He's very nice, isn't he?" My answer was not quite ready. "Don't you like him, papa?" "Well--I like him--yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There is much in him that I like, but--" "But what? please, papa." "To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my child, there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of religion; so that I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these new schools of a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of truth but the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom by the intellect." "But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" "That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was only speaking confidentially about my fears." "Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I have the greatest sympathy with him." I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. "Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be so sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. Perhaps you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an awkward thing to get intimate with him, you know, and then find out that we did not like him after all. You couldn't like a man much, could you, who did not believe in anything greater than himself, anything marvellous, grand, beyond our understanding--who thought that he had come out of the dirt and was going back to the dirt?" "I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding--for I'm sure I couldn't. I should cry myself to death." "You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had little time to think. "But you don't know that he's like that." "I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him till I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who lay claim to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and reserve ours--as even such a man as we have been supposing might well teach us--till we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go to bed, my child." "Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss.