“Christ.—A supernaturally good man, who was crucified seventeen hundred years ago.
“Heaven.—A delightful place, where everybody is happy, to which all respectable people will go, when they can’t help it any longer.
“Bible.—A good book read in church; intensely dry, as good books always are no concern of mine.
“Salvation, peace, holiness, and the like.—Words in the Prayer-Book.
“Faith, hope, love, etcetera.—Duties, which of course we all perform, and therefore don’t need to trouble ourselves about them.
“Prayer.—An incantation, to be repeated morning and evening, if you wish to avert ill luck during the day.”
These were Gatty’s views—if she could be said to have any. How different from those of Mrs Dorothy Jennings! To her, God was the Creator, from whom, and by whom, and to whom, were all things: the Fountain of Mercy, who had so loved the world as to give His only-begotten Son for its salvation: the Father who, having loved her before the world was, cared for everything, however insignificant, which concerned her welfare. Christ was the Friend who sticketh closer than a brother—the Lamb who had been slain for her, the High Priest who was touched with every feeling of human infirmity. Heaven was the home which her Father had prepared for her. The Bible was the means whereby her Father talked with her; and prayer the means whereby she talked with Him. Salvation was her condition; holiness, her aim; faith, love, peace, the very breath she drew. While, in Gatty’s eyes, all this was unknown and unreal, to Mrs Dorothy it was the most real thing in all the world.
Gatty answered her friend’s query by a puzzled look.
“It comes in church,” she said. “He is in the Creed, and at the end of the prayers. I don’t know!”
“Child,” replied Mrs Dorothy, “you don’t know Him. And, Mrs Gatty, my dear, you must know Him, if you are ever to be a happy woman. O poor child, poor child! To think that the Man who loved you and gave His life for you is no more to you than one of a row of figures, a name set to the end of a prayer!”