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Faith is a living and unshakable confidence. A belief in God so assured that a man would die a thousand deaths for its sake.

MARTIN LUTHER

Polite society reserved visiting hours between one and three, but we Littletons hardly followed such conventions.

When Mr. Harrington requested we focus on the doll and mosaics, I heaved a sigh of relief.

After the unsettling visit from the two Dilettanti men, the idea of losing myself in ancient artifacts was far more appealing than engaging with any visitors.

Sensing my need for quiet, Father instructed Molly to turn away any callers.

Excitement flickered as we put on white gloves and compared our finds.

The cameo of a man with a hawk-like nose reminded me of Lord Hawthorn—imperious, yet surprisingly kind.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I pushed aside the thought of Mr. Beaumont’s claim of purchasing Lord Hawthorn’s land.

Mr. Perry and I had heard nothing further from the magistrate, despite Father’s recent visit to Chichester, where he had hoped to speak with the magistrate directly.

All my dreams and hopes felt as though they might dissipate as readily as smoke. If I could no longer access the site in the months to come, would Mr. Harrington still find work for me with the society? Any control over the situation felt as distant and evasive as the magistrate at Chichester.

“Could this man be the owner of the house?” I asked as we observed the ring.

“Perhaps, or a god,” Mr. Harrington said as he held it up to the light streaming from the window.

“An idol. Oh, Reverend, how can we allow such a hideous thing inside the parsonage?” Mrs. Herriot moaned as she bustled out of the room.

“Get a glove, Reverend, and you may hold something well over a thousand years old,” Mr. Harrington said, ignoring Mrs. Herriot’s protest.

Father slipped on the glove and picked up the ring. I saw a sense of wonder pass over his features as the ruby’s stone glowed, further revealing the handsome profile.

“I have no idealism about the Romans,” Mr. Harrington said. “When Pompeii was rediscovered, the French quickly covered the worst of the vulgar pictures.”

I didn’t need him to explain further. I had read plenty of Roman literature. Unfortunately, I had also seen things no respectable woman would ever admit to knowing, and they were as foul as Mr. Harrington intimated.

Father nodded at me, approval shining in his eyes at Mr. Harrington’s levelheaded assessment. “Proof, my good sir, of Christianity’s acclaim to change not just the individual but the course of the world. Men learned to blush again and discern good from evil.”

Trust Father to find redemption. Still, his thought settled into the cracks of my soul. As much as I felt like a doubting Thomas, I could not deny the change faith brought. Pain followed it too. Pain that made me wrestle with the goodness of such a God.

“Might I see your doll, Miss Littleton?” Mr. Harrington asked, drawing me from my thoughts.

I pulled the jointed doll out of the tin, careful to keep the linen handkerchief around her. The face held no details, a blank slate waiting to be written upon.

“Somewhat of an older toy to give an infant,” I admitted as he carefully reached for it. He grunted assent, and it seemed as if Father and I had faded from the room. Mr. Harrington rose and took the doll. He sank into the petite chair, its legs groaning beneath his weight.

“Ah,” he crooned as he turned over the toy. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a large magnifying glass. “Ah.” Then a sudden intake of breath.

He pierced me with a look. “There is a Christian symbol on her. You knew this?”

I nodded. “I wanted to be sure before I claimed such a thing. I had hoped you would confirm my finding.”

“This explains why someone buried her in such a manner. Only a Christian would do such a thing. The question is, who did this child belong to? The master of the house? Or a slave or a servant?”

“I doubt we will ever know,” I murmured.

Mr. Harrington didn’t seem to hear my remark.

“It’s a cross of sorts, otherwise known as the Chi Rho, a symbol used by Constantine, the first Christian emperor.

It’s encircled too. At first glance, one might assume it was the letter P intersected with a simple x .

The chi and the rho, both Greek letters.

Using a wreath around the Chi Rho symbolizes the victory of the resurrection over death. ”

“Then the doll gives us a framework. We can’t date the original building, but we know of such Christian symbols used around the fourth century,” I said.

Mr. Harrington shot me a glance full of approval.

“Bridget, this is marvelous.” Father peered over the man’s shoulder to see the markings. “It’s a sign from above.” His voice broke. “A sign of God’s mercy in troubling seasons. Of His perfect faithfulness even in the presence of evil and loss.”

I suspected what he left unsaid, his fear for Daniel’s well-being stealing the last bit of his strength. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears as he examined the doll with Mr. Harrington.

Yes, the doll’s marking was marvelous. And disconcerting in a way. Was God trying to tell me something? That He remained in control, even as my doubt festered?

Could I trust Him with my life and that of my loved ones, as Mrs. Eacher had encouraged?

Oh, ye of little faith.