"'The gad-about is a vain thing and a mighty cause for stumblin'.' You mind
that, an' take better care hencefarrard to set a right example to other
maids an' not lead 'em wrong. Theer shan't be no froward liver under this
roof, Joan Tregenza, an' you, as be my awn darter's the last I'd count to
find wanderin'."
She lied as to particulars. She had no fear of her father now as a man, but
hard words always hurt her, and superstition, though she was fast breaking
from many forms of it under Barron's tuition, still chained her soul in
some directions. Did her father know even a shadow of the truth, some dire
and blasting prediction would probably result from it, and though
personally he was little to her now, as a mouthpiece of supernatural powers
he might bring blighting words upon her; for he walked with God. But
Michael's God was Joan's no more. She had fled from that awful divinity to
the more beautiful Creator of John Barron. He was kind and gentle, and she
loved to hear His voice in the hum of the bees upon the gorse and see His
face everywhere in the fair on-coming of spring. Nature, as she understood
it now, chimed with the things her mother had taught Joan. She found room
for all the old, pretty stories in this new creed. The dear saints fitted
in with it, and their wonders and mysteries, and the comprehensive if vague
knowledge that "God is Love." She believed she understood the truth about
religion at last; and Nature smiled very sweetly at her and shared in the
delight of the time.
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