"You are what Grandma Keeler calls a believer, are you not, dear?" I
said, with the same composedly dictatorial manner: "in distinction from a
professor, I mean."
Rebecca gave a little gasp, and turned her head away, for an instant.
When she looked back, there were tears of distress in her eyes.
I felt a vague wonder and regret.
"No," she said; "I thought, once--I wanted--I hoped----"
"Why, child!" I hastened to exclaim. "I didn't ask you because I had any
reason to doubt that you were one--quite the contrary--but simply for
this. It seems to me it would be such a desirable thing for you, situated
as you are, here, with so few surroundings of a refining and elevating
nature, if you could attach yourself, if it were merely for a feeling of
fellowship and sympathy--for of course, you could not attend, often--to
some simple Orthodox body of believers--like the Methodist church at West
Wallen, for instance. It seems to me, that, in your case, believing
simply and unquestionably, as I have no doubt you do, it would be a sort
of assurance, a sort of continual rest and support to you. It would be a
great relief to me if I felt that you were so guarded.
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