doubt, but proscribed in her case for no other reason on earth than
because it expressed some mild disbelief as to the exact literary
accuracy of those Lower Syrian pamphlets to which your priests
attach such immense importance."

"Oh, Mr. Ingledew," Frida cried, trembling, yet profoundly
interested; "if you talk like that any more, I shan't be able to
listen to you."

"There it is, you see," Bertram continued, with a little wave of
the hand. "You've been so blinded and bedimmed by being deprived of
light when a girl, that now, when you see even a very faint ray, it
dazzles you and frightens you. That mustn't be so--it needn't, I
feel confident. I shall have to teach you how to bear the light.
Your eyes, I know, are naturally strong; you were an eagle born:
you'd soon get used to it."

Frida lifted them slowly, those beautiful eyes, and met his own
with genuine pleasure.

"Do you think so?" she asked, half whispering. In some dim,
instinctive way she felt this strange man was a superior being, and
that every small crumb of praise from him was well worth meriting.

"Why, Frida, of course I do," he answered, without the least sense
of impertinence. "Do you think if I didn't I'd have taken so much
trouble to try and educate you?" For he had talked to her much in
their walks on the hillside.

Frida did not correct him for his bold application of her Christian