C. They—Betty and her set, I mean—laughed at and argued one thing after another, till they showed me that there were no positive grounds to go on.
Mr. A. No material grounds.
C. And what else is certain?
Mr. A. Do you think your mother was not certain?
C. I saw she was; I see you are certain. But what am I to do? I cannot unthink.
Mr. A. Poor child, they have loosed you from the shore, because you could not see it, and left you to flounder in the waves.
C. Well, so I feel it sometimes; but if I could only feel that there was a shore, I would try to get my foothold. Oh, with all my heart!
Mr. A. Will you take my word, dear child—the word of one who can dare humbly to say he has proved it, so as to be as sure as of the floor we are standing on, that that Rock exists; and God grant that you may, in prayer and patience, be brought to rest on it once more.
C. Once more! I don’t think I ever did so really. I only did not think, and kept away from what was dull and tiresome. Didn’t you read something about ‘If thou hadst known—’
Mr. A. ‘If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things that belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes.’ But oh, my dear girl, it is my hope and prayer, not for ever. If you will endure to walk in darkness for a while, till the light be again revealed to you.