“He made it for you special,” said Wastenot. “And little Al burnt in the crosses hisself, seeing how he wasn’t allowed down here no more.”

By now Thrower was standing with them, and he could see that the altar had been lovingly built. It was the last thing he expected from Alvin Miller. And the perfectly even crosses hardly looked like the work of a six-year-old child.

“Here,” he said, leading them to the place where he had imagined his altar would stand. It was the only thing in the meetinghouse besides the walls and the floor, and being stained, it was darker than the new-wood floor and walls. It was perfect, and tears came to Thrower’s eyes. “Tell them that it’s beautiful.”

Faith and the boys smiled as broad as could be. “You see he ain’t your enemy,” said Faith, and Thrower could only agree.

“I’m not his enemy, either,” he said. And he didn’t say: I will win him over with love and patience, but I will win, and this altar is a sure sign that in his heart he secretly longs for me to set him free from the darkness of ignorance.

They didn’t linger, but headed home briskly through the night. Thrower set his candlestick on the floor near the altar—never on it, since that would smack of Papistry—and knelt in a prayer of thanksgiving. The church mostly built, and a beautiful altar already inside it, built by the man he had most feared, the crosses burnt into it by the strange child who most symbolized the compelling superstitions of these ignorant people.

“You’re so full of pride,” said a voice behind him.

He turned, already smiling, for he was always glad when the Visitor appeared.

But the Visitor was not smiling. “So full of pride.”

“Forgive me,” said Thrower. “I repent of it already. Still, can I help it if I rejoice in the great work that is begun here?”

The Visitor gently touched the altar, his fingers seeking out the crosses. “He made this, didn’t he?”

“Alvin Miller.”

“And the boy?”

“The crosses. I was so afraid they were servants of the devil—“

The Visitor looked at him sharply. “And because they built an altar, you think that proves they’re not?”

A thrill of dread ran through him, and Thrower whispered, “I didn’t think the devil could use the sign of the cross—“

“You’re as superstitious as any of the others,” said the Visitor coldly. “Papists cross themselves all the time. Do you think it’s a hex against the devil?”

“How can I know anything, then?” asked Thrower. “If the devil can make an altar and draw a cross—“