Lois was disquieted. She had ever secretly deplored the infirm masculine constitution of Giles and Christian, who accepted from her a spiritual ration with never a sign of genuine, eager hunger of soul. Yet this departure was little to her liking. Though fain would she have recognised the working of the Spirit, she dreaded rather that this was no healthy symptom in Christian's raw development. A cruel stroke to her was this second reserve of independence, invading the fastest hold of a mother's influence. Back came the earlier conviction that her boy's withdrawal from her must be for wrong-going, and the strain of watchful scrutiny and prayer returned. It had slackened when her God had shown such favour as to take out of her soul that iron that for years had corroded there, that she had vainly striven to expel. She approached Christian with a diffidence that was painful to him to perceive; she recommended counsel in any difficulty--not her own, she said sincerely, though with a touch of bitterness. He was embarrassed by her close, tender surveillance. 'I have already taken counsel,' he admitted, 'and I think I have got understanding--at least I have got certain information by heart.' 'Of his Reverence?' 'Yes.' 'Christian, you are not of the doubters?' 'No, mother, of the ignorant.' Her piercing eyes examined his. 'Who has told you so? You did not know it of yourself. What evil communication corrupts you?' There was no answer but the sufficient one of the boy's conscious face. There was that in the fire of it that inspired Lois to groan in her heart: 'My boy has met a daughter of perdition.' She did not miss her Bible again. Lois's divination of the truth preceded Christian's, though again into the presence of Diadyomene had he made his way. There he went high-hearted on a service that sanctioned all risks--the recovery to the fair witch of her lost soul, fair too he was sure. When he summoned her to baptism with the first breath, she laughed him off. No, no, she would have none of it. Let him tell her first that of the nature of a secret, as he said he would some day. And Christian, seeing it was indeed germane, delivered the story of the child cut off unbaptized, to the mother's undying remorse. She rewarded him. 'And she would have cared for the little dead body to kiss! Ah, poor mother!' she said softly and regretfully, so that his eyes grew moist. 'Diadyomene, if I die of the sea, would you be so far pitiful as to render to her my body again?' 'No,' she mocked; 'I myself would keep it. Did I not promise as much at the first?' Then she derided the poor limitation that would die of the sea through foolish preference of a soul.