“O Margaret! have we not sinned? Is it not an indulgence of the flesh?”
“Wert thou made without flesh?” asked Margaret, with a short, dry laugh.
“No, but it must be mortified!”
“Sin must be mortified,” she answered more gravely. “Why should we mortify love?”
“Not spiritual love: but natural love, surely, we renounce.”
“Why should we renounce it? Does God make men sons and brothers, husbands and fathers, only that they may have somewhat to renounce? Can He train us only in the wilderness of Sinai, and not in the land flowing with milk and honey?”
“But we renounce them for Him.”
“We renounce for Him that which He demandeth of us.” Margaret’s voice was low and sorrowful now. “Ay, there be times when He holdeth out His hand for the one dearest earthly thing, and calls us to resign either it or Him. Blessed are they that then, howsoever they shrink and faint, yet love Him more than it, and brace their will to give it up to Him. To them that so do, Annora, He giveth Himself; and He is better than any earthly thing. ‘Quid enim mihi est in caelo? et a Te quid volui super terram?’ (Psalm 73, verse 25) But it seems to me that we ought to beware of renouncing what He does not ask of us. If we are in doubt, then let us draw the line on the safe side,—on His side, not on the side of our inclinations. Yet of one thing am I sure—that many a woman mortifies her graces instead of her sins, and resigns to God that which He asks not, keeping that which He would have.”
“Mortify graces!” I cried. “O Margaret! how could we?”
“I think thou wouldst, Sister, if thou hadst refused to kiss me,” she replied with an amused smile.