Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field. It is the kingly rule of Christ. Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.

Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. Above all it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son.

“I understand why you were taken by it,” said Marion, after a lengthy pause.

“He is a remarkable man. I derive great strength from my association with him.”

“Aaron was here yesterday,” said his wife, after a brief silence. “He asked you to call when you returned.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said there had been developments—I assumed he meant in the village.”

“He did not say what?”

“No. He said you would probably know of them from Finkenwalde. Perhaps it is what you were telling me of earlier.”

The baron’s grave expression gave evidence that subjects of more immediate political import than discipleship and costly grace had been raised during his two days at Finkenwalde. The time at the seminary had only increased his conviction that frightful times were coming to them all, but he would not burden his wife with the purport of it all now. He knew she would face it soon enough, and he would protect her from all he could.

“I was at Ingrid’s this afternoon,” said Marion after they sat a few minutes, both alone with their own thoughts. “She is pressing me about the children. She made me promise I would talk to you.”

“What about?”

“They are intent on the two marrying.”

“But that was just a notion—from years ago.”

“I told her that. She doesn’t see it that way.”

“Have you spoken to Sabina?” asked the baron.

“Enough to know that this is no time to rush a decision regarding her future.”

“Is she favorably disposed toward the young man?”

“They have been good friends for years, Heinrich. At the moment—well, their friendship seems strained. But the question is have we altered our enthusiasm for the marriage—that is what Ingrid is pressing me to know. She feels that we will sway Sabina favorably.”

“My enthusiasm has not altered,” said Heinrich. “I have never felt any enthusiasm for the union. It was you and Ingrid who used to talk of it when they were children. I thought nothing of it. I would never make such a commitment until we had a good chance to find out what kind of man the boy turned out to be. It was idle talk as far as I was concerned, nothing more.”