'All which I took from thee I did but take
Not for thy harms.
But just that thou mightst seek it in my arms.'
Hound of Heaven.
It seems such a coincidence that Ross just missed him after all, for when we arrived at the Manor House I found my father! He had landed the day before and heard the news from dear Aunt Constance. What a homecoming for him! He is little changed, more bowed, perhaps, and he looks older. His face seems more aloof, as if he had not only caught a glimpse of that 'most holy thing,' but, like Sir Galahad, had 'achieved the quest.'
He held his hand out to me as I went in, and said, 'My little girl.' Then the others left us for awhile together. I do not think the years out in that Mission have been easy ones, he looks as if he, like his Lord, had suffered being tempted, and he sorrows deeply for his son. He is so unselfish, so thoughtful, talks about the things that interest Uncle Jasper, and takes away that terrible blank feeling. He even laughs a little, though I don't think that his eyes have really smiled. There is a hurt look in them, as there was when mother died.
Every one is very sweet to me, but I am the most wretched woman on this earth! No, not because of Ross. How could I be for him, after seeing his face when he said 'Coming, Sir.' Although I know that I shall never lose the ache to hear his voice and see him in the flesh again, yet I could be at peace were it not for one thing. It is my soul that's wrong. It has been ever since that time I stood beside the fire doubting the love of God, and, oh, for months before. Doubt is 'perilous stuff'—'it weighs upon the heart.'
I am not sleeping very well, and as I lie awake at night I think sometimes of all the others who are grieving, too, and because I share the same sorrowful 'experience'—because there is inscribed upon my heart, as upon theirs, a list of names: I find myself 'linked up' again—bound indissolubly to each of them by a great sorrow, common to us all.
We have been in Devonshire a month now, and still we do not talk of going back to Surrey. It is lovely to be staying with Aunt Constance, and I am trying to be brave and cheerful, and to go out in the village as I used to do. The Gidger loves the dear old cottage folk, and they love her, and it is perfect having father.
The Hickley Woods are just as beautiful, only my heart breaks when I walk about in them.
It has turned hot, even I am warm enough and don't need fires at night. This evening there was a most gorgeous sunset, the sky was all ablaze with emerald and blue and gold. The distant hills had a bloom on them such as there is sometimes on bunches of purple grapes.
I saw father alone in the garden after dinner, and I felt I wanted to tell him what I hoped about the little son, so I went and stood beside him, and slipped my arm through his, and we wandered out into the woods as we have done many times before.
After I had told him, father said, with a very tender look upon his face,—