“I don’t know what you mean,” said Joan, with a startled look up.
“Don’t let it be the reigning love in your heart. Christ must be first.”
“But he is not,” said Joan calmly “I know that quite well, father dear, and I have told you so before. I hope I shall learn to love him some day—enough to go to heaven. I want that, of course.”
“And that is to be all, in return for the love which made him die for you!”
Something of the ardent devotion which had glowed in Joan’s face, as she looked up, glowed now in George Rutherford’s face as he lifted his eyes towards the gray sky. An awed feeling came over Joan.
“Father, do you love Christ really—truly—so as to be always thinking of him?” she asked.
“Yes, Joan.” There was no hesitation in the answer.
“But if you could choose—if you might go to him—or stay with us—mother and Nessie and me—father dear, you do love me very, very much—if you had to choose—”
“I have not to choose. But if I had—that would be the ‘far better.’”
Joan’s face clouded over, and two or three large tears fell.