MR. A. Do you think your mother was not certain?
C. I saw she was; I see you are certain. But what am I to do? I
cannot unthink.
MR. A. Poor child, they have loosed you from the shore, because you
could not see it, and left you to flounder in the waves.
C. Well, so I feel it sometimes; but if I could only feel that
there was a shore, I would try to get my foothold. Oh, with all my
heart!
MR. A. Will you take my word, dear child--the word of one who can
dare humbly to say he has proved it, so as to be as sure as of the
floor we are standing on, that that Rock exists; and God grant that
you may, in prayer and patience, be brought to rest on it once more.
C. Once more! I don't think I ever did so really. I only did not
think, and kept away from what was dull and tiresome. Didn't you
read something about 'If thou hadst known--'
MR. A. 'If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day,
the things that belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from
thine eyes.' But oh, my dear girl, it is my hope and prayer, not
for ever. If you will endure to walk in darkness for a while, till
the light be again revealed to you.
C. At any rate, dear grandfather, I will do what mother entreated,
and not leave you alone.