"God help them, indeed," said Peter.

"And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate
Conception. The father, after all, can hardly be the brute one
might suspect, since he has given them a religious education.
Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was the Blessed Virgin herself who
sent us across their path, in answer to that poor little
creature's prayers."

"Yes," said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way
in which she united him to herself in the pronoun.

"Which, of course," she added, smiling gravely into his eyes,
"seems the height of absurdity to you?"

"Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?" he asked.

"You are a Protestant, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe
there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of
in the usual philosophies. And I see no reason why it should
not have been the Blessed Virgin who sent us across their
path."

"What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they
heard you? Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?"

"I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as