“Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I shall not pity you. Make to yourself an idol, and God will strike it down. 'Thou shalt have none other gods but me.' Remember Who says that, and tremble.”
I should have trembled, Max, had I not remembered. I said to my sister, as gently as I could, “that I made no idols; that I knew all your faults, and you mine, and we loved one another in spite of them, but we did not worship one another—only God. That if it were His will we should part, I believed we could part. And—” here I could not say any more for tears. .
Penelope looked sorry.
“I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child, but—” she started up violently—“Can't you give me something to amuse me? Read me a bit of that—that nonsense. Of all amusing things in this world, there is nothing like a love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora,”—she grasped my hand hard—“they are every one of them lies.”
I said that I could not judge, never having received a “love-letter” in all my life, and hoped earnestly I never might.
“No love-letters? What does he write to you about, then?”
I told her in a general way. I would not see her half-satirical, half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long. Soon, though she turned away and shut her eyes, I felt sure she was both listening and thinking.
“Doctor Urquhart cannot have an easy or pleasant life,” she observed, “but he does not deserve it. No man does.”
“Or woman either,” said I, as gently as I could.
Penelope bade me hold my tongue; preaching was my father's business, not mine, that is, if reasoning were of any avail.