The passage was stormy and long.  Mrs. Copley and her daughter were both soon fully occupied with attending to their own sensations; and neither Rupert nor Lawrence had any more power to annoy them till they reached quiet water again.  But even in the depths of sea misery, Dolly’s deeper distress broke forth.  “My father! my father!  What shall I do to save my father!” she was crying in her heart; all the while with a sense that every hour was bringing her further from him and from the chance of saving him.

Still, Dolly was seventeen; and at seventeen one cannot be always cast down; and when rough water and troubled skies, and ship noises and smells, were all left behind, as it seemed, in the German ocean, and Dolly found herself one morning in the hotel at Rotterdam, eating a very good breakfast, her spirits sprang up in spite of herself.  The retiring wave of bodily misery carried with it for the moment all other.  The sun was shining again; and after breakfast they stood together at one of the windows looking out upon the new world they had come to.  Their hotel faced the quay:  they saw before them an extent of water glittering in the sunshine, steamers waiting for their time of sailing, small craft flying about in all directions, and activity, bustle, and business filling every nook and corner of the scene.  Dolly’s heart leaped up; the stir was very inspiriting; and how lovely the sunshine was, and how pleasant the novelty!  And then, to think that she had but touched the shore of novelty; that all Central Europe was behind her as she stood looking out on the quay! ­Her father would surely catch them up somewhere, and then all would go well.  She was silent, in the full joy of seeing.

“What’s the next move?” said Lawrence.  He did not care for Rotterdam quay.  He had been looking at Dolly, charmed with the delicate, fresh picture she made.  The line of frank pleasure on her lips, it was as frank as a child’s, and the eyes were as absorbed; and yet they were grave, womanly eyes, he knew, not easy to cheat, with all their simplicity.  The mingling of qualities was delicious, and not to be found elsewhere in all his sphere of experience.  Even her little hands were full of character, with a certain precision of action and calm of repose which gave to all their movements a certain thorough-bred grace, which Lawrence could recognise though he could not analyse.  Then the little head with its masses of wavy hair was so lovely, and the slim figure so full of that same certainty of action and grace of rest which he admired; there was nothing undecided about Dolly, and yet there was nothing done by rule.  That again was a combination he did not know elsewhere.  Her dress ­he considered that too.  It was the simplest of travelling dresses, with nothing to mark it, or draw attention, or make it unfit for its special use ­in perfectly good taste.  How did she know? thought Lawrence; for he knew as well as I do that she had not learned it of her mother.  There was nothing marked about Mrs. Copley’s appearance; nevertheless she lacked that harmony of simple good taste which was all over Dolly.  Lawrence looked, until he saw that Rupert was looking too; and then he thought it was time to break up the exercise.  “What is the next move?” he said.

“We have not settled that,” said Dolly.  “We could think of nothing on board ship.  Mother, dear, now we are here, which way shall we go?”

“I don’t know anything about ways,” said Mrs. Copley.  “Not here in this strange country.”

“Then put it another way,” said Lawrence.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Why, to Venice,” said Mrs. Copley, looking at him.

“Of course; but you want to see something by the way?”

“I left all that to Mr. Copley,” said she, half whimpering.  “When do you think he will come, Mr. St. Leger?  I depended on my husband.”

“He will come soon,” said Lawrence.  “But I would not recommend staying in Rotterdam to wait for him.  What do you say to our asking him to meet us in Wiesbaden?  To be sure, the season is over.”

“Wiesbaden?” said Mrs. Copley.

“Wiesbaden?” cried Dolly.  “Oh no, Mr. St. Leger!  Not there, nor in any such place!”

“The season is over, Miss Dolly.”

“I don’t want to go to Wiesbaden.  Mother, you wanted to see something ­what was it?”

“Waterloo” ­ Mrs. Copley began.

“That would take us out of the way of everything ­down into Belgium ­and you would not see anything when you got there, Mrs. Copley.  Only some fields; there is nothing left of the battle.”

“But if I saw the fields, I could imagine the battle,” said Mrs. Copley.

“Could you?  Let us imagine something pleasanter.  You don’t want to go up the Rhine?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere in a boat, Mr. St. Leger.  I am going to keep on land, now I’ve got there.  But I was thinking. ­Somebody told me of some wonderful painted glass, somewhere near Rotterdam, and told me not to miss seeing it.  Where is it?”

“I know,” said Dolly; “the place was Gonda; in the cathedral.  But where is Gonda?”

“Nine miles off,” said Rupert.

“Then that’s where I want to go,” said Mrs. Copley.  “I have heard all my life of painted glass; now I should like to see what it amounts to.”

“Perhaps that would take us out of our way too, mother.”

“I thought we just said we had no way settled,” said Mrs. Copley in an irritated tone.  “What’s the use of being here, if we can’t see anything now we are here?  Nine miles isn’t much, anyhow.”

“We will go there, dear,” said Dolly.  “We can go so far and come back to this place, if necessary.”

“And there is another thing I want to see, now we are here,” Mrs. Copley went on.  “I want to go to Dresden.”

“Dresden!” cried St. Leger.  “What’s at Dresden?”

“A great many things, I suppose; but what I want to see is the Green vaults and the picture gallery.”

“Mrs. Copley,” said Lawrence quietly, “there are galleries of pictures everywhere.  We shall find them at every step ­more than you will want to look at, by a hundred fold.”

“But we shall not find Green vaults, shall we?  And you will not tell me that the Dresden madonna is anywhere but at Dresden?”

“I did not know you cared so much about pictures, mother,” Dolly ventured.

“I don’t!” said Mrs. Copley, ­“not about the pictures; but I don’t like to be here and not see what there is to see.  I like to say I have seen it.  It would be absurd to be here and not see things.  Your father told me to go just where I wanted to; and if I don’t go to Waterloo, I want to see Dresden.”

“And from there?” said Lawrence.

“I don’t know.  I suppose we can find our way from there to Venice somehow.”

“But do you not include Cologne Cathedral in the things you wish to see?”

“Cologne?  I don’t know about cathedrals.  We are going to see one now, aren’t we?  Isn’t one as good as another?”

“To pray in, I have no doubt,” said Lawrence; “but hardly to look at.”

“Well, you don’t think churches ought to be built to look at, do you?  I think that is wicked.  Churches are meant for something.”

“You would not object to looking at them when they are built? would you?  Here we are now, going to see Gonda Cathedral.”

“No, I am not,” said Mrs. Copley.  “I am going to see the glass windows.  We shall not see them to-day if we stand here talking.”

Lawrence ordered a carriage, and the party set out.  He wished devoutly that it had numbered five instead of four, so that Rupert could have been sent outside.  But the carnage held them all comfortably.

Dolly was a little uneasy at the travelling problem before her; however, no uneasiness could stand long against the charm of that morning’s drive.  The blessed familiar sun shone on a world so very different from all the world she had ever known before.  On every hand were flower gardens; on both sides of the way; and in the midst of the flower gardens stood pleasant-looking country houses; while the road was bordered with narrow canals, over which drawbridges of extravagant size led to the houses.  It was a rich and quaint and pretty landscape under the September sun; and Dolly felt all concern and annoyance melting away from her.  She saw that her mother too was amused and delighted.  Surely things would come out right by and by.

The town interested three of the party in a high degree.

“Well!” said Mrs. Copley, “haven’t they learned here yet to turn the front of their houses to the street?”

“Perhaps they never will,” said Lawrence.  “Why should they?”

“Because things ought to be right, if it is only the fronts of houses,” said the lady.

“I wouldn’t mind which way they looked, if they would only hold up straight,” said Rupert.  “What ails the town?”

“Bad soil, most likely,” returned Lawrence.  “The foundations of Holland are moral, not physical.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Mrs. Copley.  “I am sure they have plenty of money.  Is this the cathedral we are coming to?”

“St. Jans Kirk .”

“Well, if that’s all! ­It isn’t handsome a bit!”

“It’s real homely, that’s a fact,” said Rupert.

“You came to see the glass windows,” said Lawrence.  “Let us go in, and then pass judgment.”

They went in, and then a low exclamation from Rupert was all that was heard.  The ladies were absolutely mute before the blaze of beauty that met them.

“Well!” said Rupert after a pause of deep silence ­“now I know what folks mean when they say something ‘beats the Dutch.’  That beats all I ever saw! ­hollow.”

“But how delicious!” exclaimed Dolly.  “The work is so delicate.  And oh, the colours!  Mother, do you see that purple?  Who is the person represented there, Mr. St. Leger?”

“That is Philip the Second.  And it is not likely, I may remark, that any Dutchman painted it.  That broken window was given to the church by Philip.”

“Who did paint it, then?”

“I cannot say, really.”

“What a pity it is broken!”

“But the others are mostly in very good keeping.  Come on ­here is the Duke of Alva.”

“If I were a Dutch woman, I would break that,” said Dolly.

“No, you wouldn’t.  Consider ­he serves as an adornment of the city here.  Breaking his effigy would not be breaking him, Miss Dolly.”

“It must be a very strange thing to live in an old country,” said Dolly.  “I mean, if you belong to it.  Just look at these windows! ­How old is the work itself, Mr. St. Leger?”

“I am not wise in such things; ­I should say it must date from the best period of the art.  I believe it is said so.”

“And when was that?”

“Really, I don’t know; a good while ago, Miss Dolly.”

“Philip II. came to reign about the middle of the sixteenth century,” Rupert remarked.

“Exactly,” St. Leger said, looking annoyed.

“Well, sir,” Rupert went on, “I would like to ask you one thing ­can’t they paint as good a glass window now as they could then?”

“They may paint a better glass window, for aught I know,” said Lawrence; “but the painting will not be so good.”

“That’s curious,” said Rupert.  “I thought things went for’ard, and not back, in the world.  Why shouldn’t they paint as well now as ever?”

Nobody spoke.

“Why should they not, Mr. St. Leger?” Dolly repeated.

“I don’t know, I’m sure.  Mrs. Copley, I’m afraid you are fatiguing yourself.”

Mrs. Copley yielded to this gentle suggestion; and long, long before Dolly was ready to go, the party left the church to repair to a hotel, and have some refreshment.  They were all in high spirits by this time.

“Is it settled where we are to go next?” Mr. St. Leger inquired as they sat at table.

“I don’t care where next,” said Mrs. Copley; “but only I want to come out at Dresden.”

“But Dresden, mother” ­said Dolly gently, “it is not in our way to Venice.”  She interpreted the expression she saw in Lawrence’s face.

“Dolly, the Green vaults are in Dresden.  I am not going to be so near and not see them.  Wasn’t I right about the painted windows?  I never saw anything so beautiful in my life, nor you didn’t.  I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.  Now you’ll see if I ain’t right about the Green vaults.”

“What do you expect to find in them?” Lawrence asked.  “I do not remember anything about such a mysterious place.”

“I have heard about it in London,” Mrs. Copley answered.  “Somebody who had been there told me about it, and I made up my mind I’d see it if ever I got a chance.  It is like having Aladdin’s lamp and going down into his vault ­only you can’t take away what you’ve a mind to; that’s the only difference.”

“But what is there?  Aladdin’s grotto was full of precious stones, if I remember.”

“And so are these,” cried Mrs. Copley.  “There is an egg with a hen in it.”

At this there was a general laugh.

“It’s a fact,” said Mrs. Copley.  “And in the hen, or under it ­in the hen, I believe ­there is a crown of gold and diamonds and pearls, with a motto.  Oh, it’s wonderful.  It’s better than the Arabian Nights, if it’s true.”

“Except that we cannot take the egg away with us,” said Lawrence.  “However ­pray, do they let in the indiscriminate public to see these wonders?”

“I don’t know.  I suppose there are ways to get in, or nobody would have been in.”

“No doubt; the problem is, to find the way.  Influence may be necessary, possibly.”

“I daresay Mr. Copley can manage it.  Do write and ask him what we must do, Dolly; and ask him to send us letters, or leave, or whatever we must have.  Write to-day, will you? and ask him to send it right away.  Of course there are ways to do things.”

“May I make a suggestion?” said Lawrence.  “If we are to go on to Dresden, why should we return to Rotterdam?  We might send back to the hotel for our luggage, and meanwhile you can rest here.  And then we can go on to Utrecht early to-morrow; or this evening, if you like.  It would save time.”

This plan met approval.  Rupert volunteered to go back and bring Mrs. Copley’s belongings safely to Gonda.

“And while you are about it, bring mine too, my good fellow, will you?” said St. Leger as Rupert was about to go.  He spoke somewhat superciliously.  But the other answered with cool good humour,

“All right.  I’ll do that, on the understanding that you’ll do as much for me next time.”  And he went.

“Confound him!” said Lawrence; while Dolly smiled.

“Hush!” she said.  “I am sure that is a fair bargain.”

“Where did Mr. Copley pick up such a green hand?”

“Did you never see him at the office?”

“What office?”

“The Consul’s office, in London.  You have been there enough.”

“Oh, ah ­the Consul’s office,” said Lawrence.  “True, if he was there I must have seen him.  But what do we want of him here?”

“He is useful to you just now,” said Dolly.

But afterwards she took up the question again and, what Lawrence did not dream of, included his name in it.  Why was either of these young men there?  This time of waiting at the hotel gave Dolly a chance to think; and while she sat at the window and watched the strange figures and novel sights in the street, her mind began to go over more questions than one.  She felt in a sort lost without her father.  Here were she and her mother taking a journey through Europe in the care of these two young men.  What were they there for?  Rupert certainly for her pleasure and service, she knew; Lawrence, she was equally sure, for his own.  How should she manage them? for Lawrence must not be encouraged, while at the same time he could not be sent away.  At least, not yet.  Careful, and cool, and womanly, she must be; and that was not so very difficult, for poor Dolly felt as if glad childish days were past for her.

Another question was, how she should get the most good of her journey, and how she could help Rupert, who, she could see, was on the watch to improve himself.  Dolly had a sympathy for him.  She resolved that she would study up every subject that presented itself, and set Rupert upon doing the same.  St. Leger might take care of himself.  Yet Dolly’s conscience would not let him go so.  No; one can be nobody’s travelling companion for days or weeks, without having duties to fulfil towards him; but Dolly thought the duties were very difficult in this her particular case.  If her father would but come!  And therewith Dolly sat down and wrote him the tenderest, lovingest of letters, telling him about their journey, and the glass windows; and begging him to meet them in Dresden or before, so that they might see the fabulous Green vaults together.  In any case, she begged him to make such provision that Mrs. Copley might not be disappointed of seeing them.  All Dolly’s eloquence and some tears were poured out upon that sheet of paper; and as she sealed it up she felt again that she was surely growing to be a woman; the days of her childhood were gone.

Not so far off, however, but that Dolly’s spirits sprang up again after the letter was despatched, and were able to take exquisite pleasure in everything the further journey offered.  Even the unattractive was novel, and what was not unattractive was so charming.  She admired the quaint, clean, bright, fanciful Dutch towns; the abundance of flowers still to be seen abroad; the smiling country places surrounding the towns; the strange carvings and devices on the houses; the crooked streets.

“You are the first person I ever saw,” Lawrence said admiringly, “who found beauty in crooked streets.”

“Do you like straight ones?” said Dolly.

“Certainly.  Why not?”

“You look from end to end; you see all there is at once; walk and walk as you may, there is no change, but the same wearisome lines of houses.  Now when streets are not straight, but have windings and turnings, you are always coming to something new.”

“I suppose you like them to be up hill and down too?”

“Oh, very much!”

“You do not find that in Holland.”

“No, but in Boston.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Lawrence.

“I wonder,” Dolly went on, “what makes one nation so different from another. You are on an island; but here there is only a line between Holland and Germany, and the people are not alike.”

“Comes from what they eat,” said Lawrence.

“Their food?” said Dolly.

“Yes.  The Scotchman lives upon porridge, the Englishman on beef and porter, the German on sausages and beer.”

“The French?”

“Oh, on soup and salad and sour wine.”

“And Italians?”

“On grapes and olives.”

“That will do to talk about,” said Dolly; “but it does not touch the question.”

“Not touch the question!  I beg your pardon ­but it does touch it most essentially.  Do you think it makes no difference to a man what sort of a dinner he eats?”

“A great difference to some men; but does it make much difference in him?”

“Yes,” said Rupert; and “Yes!” said Lawrence, with a unanimity which made Dolly smile.  “I can tell you,” the latter went on, “a man is one thing or another for the day, according to whether he has had a good breakfast or a bad one.”

“I understand.  That’s temper.”

“It is not temper at all.  It is physical condition.”

“It’s feeling put to rights, I think,” said Rupert.

“I suppose all these people are suited, in their several ways,” said Dolly.  “Will mother like Venice, Mr. St. Leger, when we get there?  What is it like?”

“Like a city afloat. You will like it, for the strangeness and the beautiful things you will find there.  I can’t say about Mrs. Copley, I’m sure.”

“What do they drink there?” said Rupert.  “Water?”

“Well, not exactly.  You can judge for yourself, my good fellow.”

“But that is Italy,” said Dolly.  “I suppose there is no beer or porter?”

“Well, you can find it, of course, if you want it; there are people enough coming and going that do want it; but in Venice you can have pure wine, and at a reasonable price, too.”

“At hotels, of course,” said Dolly faintly.

“Of course, at some of them.  But I was not thinking of hotels.”

“Of what, then?”

“Wine-shops.’’

“Wine-shops!  Not for people who only want a glass, or two glasses?”

“Just for them.  A glass or two, or half a dozen.”

“Restaurants, you mean?”

“No, I do not mean restaurants.  They are just wine-shops; sell nothing but wine.  Odd little places.  There’s no show; there’s no set out; there are just the casks from which the wine is drawn, and the glasses-mugs, I should say; queer things; pints and quarts, and so on.  Nothing else is there, but the customers and the people who serve you.”

“And people go into such places to drink wine? merely to drink, without eating anything?”

“They can eat, if they like.  There are street venders, that watch the custom and come in immediately after any one enters; they bring fruit and confections and trifles.”

“You do not mean that gentlemen go to these places, Mr. St. Leger?”

“Certainly.  The wine is pure, and sold at a reasonable rate.  Gentlemen go, of course ­if they know where to go.”

Dolly’s heart sank.  In Venice this! ­where she had hoped to have her father with her safe.  She had known there was wine enough to be had in hotels; but that, she knew too, costs money, if people will have it good; and Mr. Copley liked no other.  But cheap wine-shops, “if you know where to go,” ­therefore retired and comparatively private places, ­were those to be found in Venice, the goal of her hopes?  Dolly’s cheeks grew perceptibly pale.

“What is the matter, Miss Dolly?” Lawrence asked, watching her.  But Dolly could not answer; and she thought he knew, besides.

“There is no harm in pure wine,” he went on.

Dolly flashed a look at him upon that, a most involuntary, innocent look; yet one which he would have worked half a day for if it could have been obtained so.  It was eloquent, it was brilliant, it was tender; it carried a fiery appeal against the truth of his words, and at the same time a most moving deprecation of his acting in consonance with them.  She dared not speak plainer, and she could not have spoken plainer, if she had talked for an hour.  Lawrence would have urged further his view of the subject, but that look stopped him.  Indeed, the beauty of it put for the moment the occasion of it out of his head.

Thanks to Rupert’s efficient agency, they were able to spend that night at Utrecht, and the next day went on.  It seemed to Dolly that every hour was separating her further from her father; which to be sure literally was true; nevertheless she had to give herself up to the witchery of that drive.  The varied beauty, and the constant novelty on every hand, were a perpetual entertainment.  Mrs. Copley even forgot herself and her grievances in looking out of the carriage windows; indeed, the only trouble she gave was in her frequent changing places with Dolly to secure now this and now that view.

“We haven’t got such roads in Massachusetts,” remarked Rupert.  “This is what I call first-rate going.”

“Have you got such anything else there?” Lawrence inquired smoothly.

“Not such land, I’m bound to say.”

“No,” said Dolly, “this is not in the least like Massachusetts, in anything.  O mother, look at those cattle! why there must be thousands of them; how beautiful!  You would not find such an immense level green plain in Massachusetts, Mr. St. Leger.  I never saw such a one anywhere.”

Mrs. Copley took that side of the carriage.

“It wouldn’t be used for a pasture ground, if we had it there,” said Rupert.

“Perhaps it would.  I fancy it is too wet for grain,” St. Leger answered.

“Now here is a lake again,” said Dolly.  “How large, and how pretty!  Miles and miles, it must be.  How pretty those little islands are, Mr. Babbage!”

Mrs. Copley exchanged again, and immediately burst out ­

“Dolly, Dolly, did you see that woman’s earrings?  I declare they were a foot long.”

“I beg your pardon ­half a foot, Mrs. Copley.”

“What do you suppose they are made of?”

“True gold or silver.”

“Mercy! that’s the oddest thing I’ve seen yet.  I suppose Holland is a very rich country.”

“And here come country houses and gardens again,” said Dolly.  “There’s a garden filled with marble statues, mother.”

Mrs. Copley shifted her seat to the other side to look at the statues, and directly after went back to see some curiously trimmed yews in another garden.  So it went on; Dolly and her mother getting a good deal of exercise by the way.  Mrs. Copley was ready for her dinner, and enjoyed it; and Dolly perceiving this enjoyed hers too.

Then they were delighted with Arnheim.  They drove into the town towards evening; and the quaint, picturesque look of the place, lying bright in the sunshine of a warm September day, took the hearts of both ladies.  The odd gables, the endless variety of building, the balconies hung with climbing vines; and above all, the little gardens, gay with fall flowers and furnished with arbours or some sort of shelter, under some of which people were taking tea, while in others the wooden tables and chairs stood ready though empty, testifying to a good deal of habitual out-of-door life; they stirred Dolly’s fancy and Mrs. Copley’s curiosity.  Both of them were glad to spend the night in such a pretty place.

After they had had supper comfortably, Dolly left her mother talking to St. Leger and slipped out quietly to take a walk, having privately summoned Rupert to attend her.  The walk was full of enjoyment.  It lasted a good while; till Dolly began to grow a little tired, and the evening light was dying away; then the steps slackened which had been very brisk at setting out, and Dolly began to let her thoughts go beyond what was immediately before her.  She was very much inclined to be glad now of Rupert’s presence in the party.  She perceived that he was already devoted to her service; not with Mr. St. Leger’s pretensions, but with something more like the adoration a heathen devotee pays to his goddess.  Rupert already watched her eyes and followed her wishes, sometimes before they were spoken.  It was plain that she might rely upon him for all to which his powers would reach; and a strong element of good-will began to mix with her confidence in him.  What could she do, to help make this journey a benefit to the boy?  He had known little of good or gentle influences in his life; yet he was gentle himself and much inclined to be good, she thought.  And he might be very important to her yet, before she got home.

“I don’t know the first thing about this country,” he broke the silence.  “It was always a little spot in the corner of the map that I thought was no sort of count.  Why, it’s a grand place!”

“You ought to read about it in history.”

“I never read much history, that’s a fact,” Rupert answered.  “Never had much to read,” he added with a laugh.  “Fact is, my life up to now has been pretty much of a scrimmage for the needful.”

“Knowledge is needful,” said Dolly.

“That’s a fact; but a fellow must live first, you see.  And that warn’t always easy once.”

“And what are your plans or prospects?  What do you mean to be ­or do? what do you mean to make of yourself?”

Rupert half laughed.  “I haven’t any prospects ­to speak of.  In fact, I don’t see ahead any further than Venice.  As to what I am to be, or do, ­I expect that will be settled without any choice of mine.  I’ve got along, so far, somehow; I guess I’ll get along yet.”

“Are you a Christian?” Dolly asked, following a sudden impulse.

“I guess I ain’t what you mean by that.”

“What do you mean by it?”

“Well ­where I come from, they call Christians folks that have j’ined the church.”

“That’s making a profession,” said Dolly.

“Yes, I’ve heard folks call it that.”

“But what is the reality? What do you think a man professes when he joins the church?”

“I’ll be shot if I know,” Rupert answered, looking at her hard in the fading light.  “I’d like first-rate to hear you say.”

“It is just to be a servant of Christ,” said Dolly.  “A true servant, ‘doing the will of God from the heart.’”

“How are you going to know what His will is?  I should be bothered if you asked me.”

“Oh, He has told us that,” said Dolly, surprised.  “In the Bible.”

“Then I s’pose you’ve got to study that considerable.”

“Certainly.”

“Well, don’t it say things pretty different from what most folks do?”

“Yes.  What then?”

“Then it wouldn’t be just easy to get along with it, I should think.”

“What then?”

“Well!” said Rupert, ­“how are you going to live in the world, and not do as the world do?”

“Then you have studied the Bible a little?”

“No, fact, I haven’t,” said Rupert.  “But I’ve heard folks talk now and again; and that’s what I think about it.”

“Suppose it is difficult?” said Dolly.  “But it is really not difficult, if one is a true servant of God and not only make-believe.  Suppose it were difficult, though.  Do you remember what Christ said of the two ways, serving Him and not serving Him?”

Rupert shook his head.

“Have you got a Bible of your own?”

“No,” said Rupert.  “That’s an article I never owned yet.  I’ve always wanted other things more, you see.”

“And I would rather want everything else in the world,” said Dolly.  “I mean, I would rather be without everything else.”

“Surely!” said Rupert.

“Because I am a servant of Christ, you see.  Now that is what I want you to be.  And as to the question of ease or difficulty ­this is what I was going to repeat to you.  Jesus said, that those who hear and obey Him are like a house planted on a rock; fixed and firm; a house that when the storms come and the winds blow, is never so much as shaken.  But those who do not obey Him are like a house built on the sand.  When the storms blow and the winds beat, it will fall terribly and all to ruins.  It seems to me, Mr. Babbage, that that is harder than the other.”

“Suppose the storms do not come?” said Rupert.

“I guess they come to most people,” said Dolly soberly.  “But the Lord did not mean these storms merely.  I don’t know whether He meant them at all.  He meant the time by and by. ­Come, we must go home,” said Dolly, beginning to go forward again.  “I wish you would be a servant of Christ, Mr. Babbage!”

“Why?”

“Oh, because all that is sure and strong and safe and happy is on that side,” said Dolly, speaking eagerly.  “All that is noble and true and good.  You are sure of nothing if you are not a Christian, Mr. Babbage; you are not sure even of yourself.  Temptation may whirl you, you don’t know where, and before you know it and before you can help it.  And when the storms come, those storms ­your house will ­go down ­in the sands” ­ And to Rupert’s enormous astonishment, Dolly’s voice broke here, and for a second she stood still, drawing long sobs; then she lifted her head with an effort, took his arm and went swiftly back on the way to the hotel.  He had not been able to say one word.  Rupert could not have the faintest notion of the experience which had pointed and sharpened Dolly’s last words; he could not imagine why, as they walked home, she should catch a hasty breath now and then, as he knew she did, a breath which was almost a sob; but Rupert Babbage was Dolly’s devoted slave from that day.

Lawrence himself marvelled somewhat at the appearance and manner of the young lady in the evening.  The talk and the thoughts had roused and stirred Dolly, with partly the stir of pain, but partly also the sense of work to do and the calling up of all her loving strength to do it.  Her cheek had a little more colour than usual, her eye a soft hidden fire, her voice a thrill of tender power.  She was like, Lawrence thought, a most rare wild wood flower, some spiritual orchis or delicious and delicate geranium; in contrast to the severely trained, massive and immoveable tulips and camellias of society.  She was at a vexatious distance from him, however; and handled him with a calm superiority which no woman of the world could have improved upon.  Only it was nature with Dolly.