“But you never were so wicked about it! You never felt—why, I have been afraid I should hate God! You never were so wicked as that.”
Low under her breath she answered “Yes,”—this sweet, saintly woman who had come to me in the dark as an angel might.
Then, turning suddenly, her voice trembled and broke:—
“Mary, Mary, do you think He could have lived those thirty-three years, and be cruel to you now? Think that over and over; only that. It may be the only thought you dare to have,—it was all I dared to have once,—but cling to it; cling with both hands, Mary, and keep it.”
I only put both hands about her neck and clung there; but I hope—it seems, as if I clung a little to the thought besides; it was as new and sweet to me as if I had never heard of it in all my life; and it has not left me yet.
“And then, my dear,” she said, when she had let me cry a little longer, “when you have once found out that Roy’s God loves you more than Roy does, the rest comes more easily. It will not be as long to wait as it seems now. It isn’t as if you never were going to see him again.”
I looked up bewildered.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“Why, do you think I shall see him,—really see him?”
“Mary Cabot,” she said abruptly, turning to look at me, “who has been talking to you about this thing?”