A thin powder of snow lay upon the land, and under the
yellow light of the winter sky the surface was blue, shadowed with
white patches where the snow had fallen more thickly. The trees and
hedges were black and hard against the white horizon that was
tightly stretched like the paper of a Japanese screen. The smell of
burning wood was in the air, and once and again a rook slowly swung
its wheel, cutting the air as it flew. The cold was so pleasantly
sharp that it was the best possible thing for Uncle Mathew, who was
accustomed to an atmosphere of hissing gas, unwashen glasses, and
rinds of cheese.
Maggie did not answer his question but herself asked one.
"Uncle Mathew, do you believe in religion?"
"Religion, my dear?" answered her uncle, greatly startled at so
unusual a question. "What sort of religion?"
"The kind of religion that father preached about every Sunday--the
Christian religion."
"To tell you the truth, my dear," he answered confidentially, "I've
never had much time to think about it. With some men, you see, it's
part of their lives, and with others--well, it isn't. My lines never
ran that way.
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