A deep cloud had settled on the face of the young man. The lady looked at him for a moment with keenest mother-eyes, suppressed a deep sigh, and betook herself again to her work. Ere she thought how he might take it, another question broke from her lips. "What sort of church had you to go to in St. Petersburg, Ian?" she said. Ian was silent a moment, thinking how to be true, and not hurt her more than could not be helped. "There are a thousand places of worship there, mother," he returned, with a curious smile. "Any presbyterian place?" she asked. "I believe so," he replied. "Ian, you haven't given up praying?" "If ever I prayed, mother, I certainly have not given it up." "Ever prayed, Ian! When a mere child you prayed like an aged Christian!" "Ah, mother, that was a sad pity! I asked for things of which I felt no need! I was a hypocrite! I ought to have prayed like a little child!" The mother was silent: she it was who had taught him to pray thus--making him pray aloud in her hearing! and this was the result! The premature blossom had withered! she said to herself. But it was no blossom, only a muslin flower! "Then you didn't go to church!" she said at length. "Not often, mother dear," he answered. "When I do go, I like to go to the church of the country I happen to be in. Going to church and praying to God are not the same thing." "Then you do say your prayers? Oh, do not tell me you never bow down before your maker!" "Shall I tell you where I think I did once pray to God, mother?" he said, after a little pause, anxious to soothe her suffering. "At least I did think then that I prayed!" he added. "It was not this morning, then, before you left your chamber?" "No, mother," answered Ian; "I did not pray this morning, and I never say prayers." The mother gave a gasp, but answered nothing. Ian went on again. "I should like to tell you, mother, about that time when I am almost sure I prayed!" "I should like to hear about it," she answered, with strangest minglings of emotion. At one and the same instant she felt parted from her son by a gulf into which she must cast herself to find him, and that he stood on a height of sacred experience which she never could hope to climb. "Oh for his father to talk to him!" she said to herself. He was a power on her soul which she almost feared. If he were to put forth his power, might he not drag her down into unbelief?