“No; only to recognize the good of trouble when it comes.”
“But I can’t. And I dislike the thought of its coming—of anything ever changing. I’m so perfectly happy now, I should like to go on and go on always—just like this. But I know I can’t. I suppose one has to be ‘shaped’; but it seems to me very dreadful. I can’t bear to look forward sometimes, and to fancy all the things that may happen in life.”
“Fearing again, Dulcie?”
“How can I help it? I love you so; and changes must come. And I dread changes.”
Her hand was on George’s knee, and the words came with almost sobs between. Once more George said softly—
“‘O thou of little faith,’ Dulcie!”
“I think I must have little faith—very, very little. Looking forward makes me so afraid. I can’t bear the thought of anything passing away—as things are now. I never was so happy in all my life before. Georgie—was it very foolish of me?—last night I was lying awake, crying, thinking what it would be if you were to be taken. Life wouldn’t be worth living then. It wouldn’t, dear;” and there came a downright sob.
The boy Leo was away at some distance. George’s eyes fell again on the open page of the book; and he read aloud, in answer—
“Ill fares the child of Heaven who will not entertain
On earth the stranger’s grief, the exile’s sense of pain.”