The long hours of the day passed by miserably for Christmas Williams. He was irresolute and troubled by vague doubts, such as had never disturbed him before. How could he possibly be in the wrong? For his opinions were those of his father and grandfather before him, and his ways were like their ways. They had never given in to new-fangled notions, to psalm-singing, and meetings for prayer in cottages. It was well-known that they had always been true blue. The old church was good enough and religious enough for them; and they had been loyal to it, never missing to present themselves on a Sunday morning in the churchwarden's pew, and to keep Christmas Day and Good Friday with equal strictness. If God was not pleased with such service, why, nine-tenths of the people he knew, living or dead, were in a bad way. But how could they be in the wrong, those honest, thrifty, steady forefathers of his, whose word was as good as their bond all the country through? Yet he could not satisfy himself, or silence the still, small voice of conscience. What sin was Easter guilty of? What was her crime that must not be forgiven? She had always been good, and obedient, and true; she had never crossed him until he required her to be false. There was the point, and the sting of it. He prided himself on being true; but he demanded of her to be false; false to herself, false to him, false to God! Why should not Easter be true to her word, and resolute, as well as himself? The old dying rector had declared that her way was really better than his way. Did he actually believe in God? All these years he had let the words slip glibly over his tongue every Sunday morning, and thought no more of them. Had he verily been true in saying them, or had he been in the habit of standing in the church, before God, with a lie in his mouth? "Do you believe in God Almighty, and in Jesus Christ?—in God's Holy Spirit, and in the forgiveness of sins?" asked his conscience. And a still deeper and lower voice gave the mournful answer, "No!"