“Probably you do, my dear.”
“But I do believe it!” cried I again.
“You do believe—what?” said my Uncle Drummond.
“Why, I believe that Christ came down from Heaven, and was crucified, dead, and buried, and rose again, and ascended into Heaven. Of course I believe it, Uncle—every bit of it.”
“And what has it to do with you, my dear? It all took place a good while ago, did it not?”
I thought again. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that Christ died to save sinners; and I must be a sinner. But somehow, I don’t quite see how it is to be put together. Uncle, it seems like a Chinese puzzle of which I have lost a piece, and none of the others will fit properly. I cannot explain it, and yet I do not quite know why.”
“Listen, Cary, and I will tell you why.”
I did, with both my ears and all my mind.
“Your mistake is a very common one, little lassie. You are trying to believe what, and you have got to believe whom. If you had to cross a raging torrent, and I offered to carry you over, it would signify nothing whether you knew where I was born, or if I were able to speak Latin. But it would signify a great deal to you whether you knew me; whether you believed that I would carry you safe over, or that I would take the opportunity to drop you into the water and run away. Would it not?”
“Of course it would,” I said; “the whole thing would depend on whether I trusted you.”