"No. Perhaps I am selfish—a shirker—and there are times when the old call to get back where I know that the need is greatest comes like a clarion. But for myself, the disaster—which once seemed like a curse—has turned out to be a blessing, as is so often the case. I have learned a great lesson, doctor."
"What lesson?" queried Rose.
"God's," responded the minister, quietly. "It may seem strange to you, my dear, but, although I was reared in a religious family, went through a great theological school, and was the rector of a city church for ten years, I never fully knew Him until I came here."
"Why, Mr. Talmadge!" gasped the girl in astonishment, while Donald said bluntly, "Do you really believe that you know Him, now?"
"I do. Not, of course, in all the fullness of His mysterious majesty, but as a friend whose ways are no longer hidden from my eyes."
"Frankly, I wish I might say as much," said the doctor. "I, too, was brought up in a religious household, but small good it did me, for, when I became old enough to think for myself, the glaring errors and inconsistencies in my childhood belief became so apparent that I became hopeless of ever understanding the truth which might lie within that astonishing maze. I quit going to church long ago."
"Doctors are generally regarded as an atheistic lot," smiled the minister.
"That's slander. We may—in the aggregate—be agnostic.... I suppose that I am."
"I ... I don't understand," said Rose in distress, "but I don't like for to hear yo' say that, Dr. Mac."
"It may not be as bad as it sounds, my child," laughed Mr. Talmadge. "An atheist is indeed a terrible person, who doesn't believe in our heavenly Father, but an agnostic is only one who confesses that he doesn't know ... but may be quite willing to learn."