“But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child—that innocent, unfortunate child!”
“Silence, Dora. It is written, The seed of evil-doers shall never be renowned. The sinless must suffer with the guilty; there is no hope for either.”
“Oh, papa,” I cried, in an agony, “Christ did not say so. He said, 'Go, and sin no more.'”
Was I wrong? If I was, I suffered for it. What followed was very hard to bear.
Max, if ever I am yours, altogether in your power, I wonder, will you ever give me those sort of bitter, cruel words? Words which people, living under the same roof, think nothing of using—mean nothing by them—yet they cut sharp, like swords. The flesh closes up after them—but oh, they bleed—they bleed! Dear Max, reprove me as you will, however much, but let it be in love, not in anger or sarcasm. Sometimes people drop carelessly, by quiet firesides, and with a good-night kiss following, as papa gave to me, words which leave a scar for years.
Next day, I was just about to write and ask you to find some other plan for helping the Cartwrights, since we neither of us would choose to persist in one duty at the expense of another—when papa called me to take a walk with him.
Is it not strange, the way in which good angels seem to take up the thread of our dropped hopes and endeavours, and wind them up for us, we see not how, till it is all done? Never was I more surprised than when papa, stopping to lean on my arm, and catch the warm, pleasant wind that came over the moors, said suddenly:—
“Dora, what could possess you to talk to me as you did last night? And why, if you had any definite scheme in your head, did you relinquish it so easily?”
“Papa, you forbade it.”
“So, even when differing from your father, you consider it right to obey him?”