“No; you are wrong there. I could never be pleased to leave those I love.”
“Only—to go to—”
“That is another side of the question. I am an exile on earth—and a citizen of heaven. The true exile doesn’t grieve to go home. And no joy could be greater than to meet my Master face to face. But, Joan, that means no possibility of gladness in leaving you. Cannot you understand the existence of joy and sorrow side by side?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Joan said slowly.
“Only—what?” he asked, watching her.
“Father, if you could have seen your own face in that illness, the day you were at your worst—” Joan said, and came to a pause.
“I had some fair glimpses of the light on the other side, my dear,” he said, quietly. “And if the call had come, I could have gone rejoicing. The call did not come,—and I could turn back to wait, rejoicing. Joan, do you believe it was no pain to me at that time to think of parting with my child?”
Joan looked up with sudden comprehension.
“Oh, I know—I know it was,” she said.
An hour later as they crossed the moor, one or two sharp showers overtook them; and some fine effects in the way of contrasted brightness and shadow were to be seen. A close phalanx of low black clouds with fringed edges swept over the hills, and following persistently in their wake was one broad belt of sunshine.