"Child, you must think me very selfish. Was it on my account you were crying? I think I must have said some strange things before I went to sleep, but I forget what they were—indeed, I sometimes fear my brain is giving way. But, Adèle dear, I can't allow you to grieve for me in this way. Perhaps it was something else. Tell me. Come, I intend to know."
She drew one of Adèle's cold little hands from her face and held it lovingly, then the young girl told out her trouble in a few simple words.
Her religion was the growth of her loving heart; she had no particular doctrines, for so-called theology always seemed to her too hard to be understood, but she believed, in the full simplicity and truth of her young soul, what many religionists by their harsh doctrine practically deny—that God, the Father of spirits, is a merciful God, "tender, compassionate, boundless in loving-kindness and truth." She wept that night because the friend whom she loved so deeply would not take to her soul the comfort of the truth that God loved her.
It had come over Adèle's sympathetic heart that evening like a kind of agony that the loving God is for ever, through the long ages, misunderstood and denied—that while He is calling in His tenderest tones to the stricken, they will look to any comfort rather than His for help in their trouble. "God is angry with them—God is punishing them," when in reality "God is with them—God is loving them." She told it all to Margaret in a voice often broken with tears, and her earnest conviction gave a certain reality to her words.
Margaret's sore heart was soothed. "It may be," she said. "God grant it! Dear, I was beginning to feel Him near, but now the earthly things, the longings of youth, have come back with this delayed hope. They stand between my soul and God; I must long for them more than I long for Him."
"And who told you He would be angry, Margaret? Could He wish you to do what is contrary to nature? He gave you these earthly desires, this longing, this love. I sometimes think"—the young girl's voice sank, she bowed her head reverently—"that Christ became a man for this, not only that He might understand us, but that we might know He understands. It is such a good thing; it helps us to bear."
Margaret smiled: "I think it will come. I am better already; but, dear, where did you learn all this wisdom?"
There was a knock at the door which prevented an answer. The landlady's little nephew was standing in the passage, a few choice flowers in his small hands. He wanted to say good-night to Mrs. Grey, and his auntie had sent her some flowers.
It was the best possible diversion. The child's blue eyes smiled up into those of the weary woman, and they brought her pleasant memories. She took the child up on the bed kissed him tenderly and listened to his infant prattle.