Clarice was very reluctant to go.
"He used to puzzle Aymer and Helen with questions," she said, "when he found them reading the Bible or the books we send them; and Aymer told me he used to get quite unhappy, for the doubts suggested would keep coming back, until at last, he always went away at once, and would have no talk. And when we went home, I took him a present of that book of which Dr. Ausley thinks so highly, and he would not even open it. He said he had known the author, who was an enthusiast. What could I say to him? I should only do harm."
Still, when her father went on in the same way, not getting any better, and always begging of her to come home, she felt that she ought to go. Guy took her to Dublin, and Aymer met her in E— and accompanied her home.
Her father seemed pleased to see her; but as days passed, and he said nothing particular to her, she began to think that her fears had been unfounded; and before long she almost wished he would speak. He looked so sad; he seemed to be always thinking. At last one evening, when she was sitting at work in the window of his room, he suddenly said,—
"Clarice, come here. I want to ask you a question—you need not look so frightened, child. I suppose Aymer has been telling you how I once puzzled him with questions. Aymer is no genius; yet his simple answers puzzled me more than my questions puzzled him. But, Clarice, all that looks very small when one comes to lie where I lie now. Little discrepancies—little difficulties—what are they in the face of the great realities?"
"What great realities?" whispered Clarice, after waiting silently for some time.
"Death—Conscience—Eternity!" he answered. "In my worst days I never doubted that there is a Hereafter. I simply never thought of it. It was you, Clarice, long ago, set me thinking."
"I, papa?"
"Yes, a few words you said; but, far more, the fact that there is in your life a something—a motive-power, which cannot be a delusion. I am weak now, and I believe I am talking like a fool; but it has come to this, that I would give—oh, what would I not give?—to be able to believe. But I have cherished my vain doubts and questions, and I played with my idle speculations so long that all is mist. I cannot lay hold of anything."
"I am not sure that I understand you, papa."