“I am further from it than ever,” she replied, rather petulantly.
“No wonder,” said Guy. “For comfort hath another name, which is—Christ. Who is a stranger to the One shall needs be a stranger to the other.”
“I have tried hard to make my salvation,” responded Philippa more sadly; “but as yet I cannot do it.”
“Nor will you, though you could try a thousand years,” answered Guy. “That is a manufacture beyond saints and angels, and how then shall you do it?”
“Who then can do it?”
“God,” said Guy, solemnly.
“God hates me,” replied Philippa, under her breath. “He hateth all mine house. For nigh fifty years, He hath sent us sorrow upon sorrow, and hath crushed us down into the dust of death.”
“Poor blindling! is that a proof that He hateth you?” answered Guy more gently. “Well, it is true at times, when the father sendeth a varlet in haste to save the child from falling over a precipice, the child—whose heart is set on some fair flower on the rock below—doth think it cruel. You are that child; and your trouble is the varlet God hath sent after you.”
“He hath sent His whole meynie, then,” said Philippa bitterly.
“Then the child will not come to the Father?” said Guy, softly.