"There is something about you, Kathie, just a little different from other children,—other girls. You often carry it in your face; and for the life of me I cannot help thinking how the wise virgins must have been illuminated with their tiny lamps while the others stood in darkness. Is it a natural gift or grace?"
She knew now what he meant. She was called upon to give testimony here, and it was almost as hard as in Mrs. Meredith's grand drawing-room. She felt the warm blood throbbing through every pulse.
"You did a brave thing that night, little girl. I shall never forget it—never. Can you answer my question? What is it?"
She could only think of one thing, one sentence, amid the whirl and confusion of ideas and the girlish shrinking back,—"The love of Christ constraineth us."
"It wasn't merely your regard for your mother or Uncle Robert?"
"It was all,"—in her simple, earnest fashion.
"I'm going out there, Kathie," nodding his head southward, "to stand some pretty hard fire, doubtless. I am not afraid of physical pain, nor the dropping out of life, though existence never was sweeter than now; but if, in the other country, the record of my useless years rises sharp against me, what shall I answer? I have never tried to do anything for the glory of God! Child, you shame all our paltry lives!"
"O, don't!" with a suggestion of pain in her voice; "what I can do is such a very little."