“I know it is—I am contented with it,” said Ethel; “but oh! Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more excellent way.”
“Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives as yours.”
She made a sound of inquiry.
“I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish life of competition and controversy—”
“I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was your delight.”
“She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted or perplexed.”
“Perplexed?” repeated Ethel.
“It is not so now,” he replied. “God forbid! But where better men have been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.”
“You knew it!” said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.
“I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.”