“Never!” she said, almost indignantly.
“I cannot hold with you there,” he replied.
“Whom have I ever injured?” exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, half amazed.
“Listen,” said he, “and I will tell you of One whom all your life you have injured and neglected—God.”
Philippa’s protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hear such words as these.
“Nay, heed not my words,” he pursued gently. “Your own lips shall bring you in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, and soul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?”
Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had not loved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried to her, “Unclean!” yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She felt angry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he “rubbed the sore, when he should bring the plaster.” Comfort she had asked, and condemnation he was giving her instead.
“Father!” she said, in mingled sadness and vexation, “you deal me hard measure.”
“My daughter,” answered the monk very gently, “the pitcher must be voided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vessel full of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the Living Water.”
“Is it only for saints, then?” she asked in a disappointed tone.