ur bishop at home speaks of Grace. To have it is to have all, to be
one with the congregation. If I can find this Light, we and the Sarki
and his people can again be friends." Aaron sat down. "I must learn what
I have done wrong," he said.

* * * * *

"Other than drink a glass of cider now and then, and make worldly music
with a guitar, you've done no wrong," Martha said stubbornly. "You're a
good man."

"In the Old Order, I am a good man, so long as no _Diener_ makes trouble
over a bit of singing or cider," Aaron said. "As a guest on Murna, I
have done some deed that has hurt this Mother-god, whom our neighbors
hold dear."

"Heathenish superstition!"

"Martha, love, I am older than you, and a man," Aaron said. "Give me
room to think! If the goddess-Mother is heathen as Baal, it matters not;
these folk who worship her hold our future in their hands. Besides, we
owe them the courtesy not to dance in their churches nor to laugh at
their prayers; even the 'English' have more grace than that." Aaron
pondered. "Something in the springtime is the Murnan Mother's gift, her
greatest gift. What?"

"Blaspheme not," Martha said. "Remember Him who _causeth the grass to
grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring
forth food out of the earth_."

"Wife, is the True God less, if these people call Him Mother?" Aaron
demanded.

"We are too far from home," the woman sighed. "Such heavy talk is
wearisome; it is for bishops to discourse so, not ordinary folk like
us."

"If I can't find the light," Aaron said, "this farm we live on, and
hoped to leave to our children, isn't worth the water in a dish of
soup." He slapped his hands together and stood to pace. "Martha, hear me
out," he said. "If a woman be with child, and a man takes her with lust
and against her will, is not that man accursed?"

"Aaron!" she said. "_Haagott_, such wicked talk you make!"

"Seen with Murnan eyes, have I not done just such a cursed thing?" Aaron
demanded. "The Mother-god of this world is _mit Kinndt_, fat with the
bounty of springtime. So tender is the swollen belly of the earth that
the people here, simple folk with no more subtle God, strip the iron
from the hoofs of their horses not to bruise her. They bare their feet
in her honor, treat her with the tenderness I treat my beloved Martha.
And to this Goddess, swollen earth, I took the plow! Martha, we are
fortunate indeed that our neighbo