"He was not of her religion. Her father thought he was acting for
her good."

I pondered on this for a time in silence, and found here a question too
great for my small brain.

"But was he right?" I asked at last, falling back upon my companion's
greater knowledge.

"It is hard to say," he answered softly. "Perhaps he was, and yet I have
come to think there is little to choose between one sect and another, so
Christ be in them and the man honest."

He looked out across the fields with tender eyes and I slipped my hand
in his. A vision of her sad face danced before me and I fell asleep, my
head within his arm, to waken only when he lifted me down at our
journey's end.

All this came back to me with the vividness which childish recollections
sometimes have, as I sat there in the pew at my mother's side. Only I
could not quite believe that this little wrinkled old man was the same
who looked so proudly from Kneller's canvas. But when the service ended
and he stopped to exchange a word with father, I saw the face was indeed
the same, though now writ over sadly by the hand of time weighted down
with sorrow. It was the only time I ever saw him in the flesh, for he was
near the end and died soon after. He was buried beside his daughter in
the little graveyard near his home. It was Mr. Fontaine who closed his
eyes in hope of resurrection and spoke the last words above his grave,--
beloved in this great mansion as in the lowliest cabin at Charles City.