Erica picked up Tottie and held him closely, turning, as all lovers of animals do in times of trouble, to the comforting devotion of those dumb friends who do not season their love with curiosity or unasked advice, or that pity which is less sympathetic than silence, and burdens us with the feeling that our sad “case” will be gossiped over in the same pitying tones at afternoon teas and morning calls. Tottie could not gossip, but he could talk to her with his bright brown eyes, and do something to fill a great blank in her life. Tom's account of the scene in the hall made every one angry. “And yet,” said Mrs. MacNaughton, “these Christians, who used to us such language as this, own as their Master one who taught that a mere angry word which wounded a neighbor should receive severe punishment!” Raeburn said nothing, only watched Erica keenly. She was leaning against the mantel piece, her eyes very sad-looking, and about her face that expression of earnest listening which is characteristic of those who are beginning to learn the true meaning of humility and “righteous judgment.” She had pushed back the thick waves of hair which usually overshadowed her forehead, and looked something between a lion with a tangled mane and a saint with a halo. “Never mind,” said the professor, cheerfully, “it is to bigotry like this that we shall owe our recovery of Erica. And seriously, what can you think of a religion which can make a man behave like this to one who had never injured him, who, on the contrary, had befriended his child?” “It is not Christ's religion which teaches him to do it,” said Erica, “it is the perversion of that religion.” “Then in all conscience the perversion is vastly more powerful and extended than what you deem the reality.” “Unfortunately yes,” said Erica, sighing. “At present it is.” “At present!” retorted the professor; “why, you have had more than eighteen hundred years to improve it.” “You yourself taught me to have patience with the slow processes of nature,” said Erica, smiling a little. “If you allow unthinkable ages for the perfecting of a layer of rocks, do you wonder that in a few hundred years a church is still far from perfect?”