“Deacon Quirk,” I answered faintly,—“Deacon Quirk and Dr. Bland.”
She put her other arm around me with a quick movement, as if she would shield me from Deacon Quirk and Dr. Bland.
“Do I think you will see him again? You might as well ask me if I thought God made you and made Roy, and gave you to each other. See him! Why, of course you will see him as you saw him here.”
“As I saw him here! Why, here I looked into his eyes, I saw him smile, I touched him. Why, Aunt Winifred, Roy is an angel!”
She patted my hand with a little, soft, comforting laugh.
“But he is not any the less Roy for that,—not any the less your own real Roy, who will love you and wait for you and be very glad to see you, as he used to love and wait and be glad when you came home from a journey on a cold winter night.”
“And he met me at the door, and led me in where it was light and warm!” I sobbed.
“So he will meet you at the door in this other home, and lead you into the light and the warmth. And cannot that make the cold and dark a little shorter? Think a minute!”
“But there is God,—I thought we went to Heaven to worship Him, and—”
“Shall you worship more heartily or less, for having Roy again? Did Mary love the Master more or less, after Lazarus came back? Why, my child, where did you get your ideas of God? Don’t you suppose He knows how you love Roy?”