“Whatever he hath done.”
“I can never do that,” replied Philippa, yet rather regretfully than angrily. “What he did to me I might; but—”
“I know,” said the Grey Lady quietly, when Philippa paused. “It is easier to forgive one’s own wrongs than those of others. I think your heart is not quite so loveless as you would persuade yourself.”
“To the dead—no,” said Philippa huskily. “But to any who could love me in return—” and she paused again, leaving her sentence unended as before. “No, I never could forgive him.”
“Never, of yourself,” was the answer. “But whoso taketh Christ for his Priest to atone, taketh Christ also for his King to govern. In him God worketh, bringing forth from his soul graces which He Himself hath first put there—graces which the natural heart never can bring forth. Faith is the first of these; then love; and then obedience. And both love and obedience teach forgiveness. ‘If ye forgive not men their trespasses, how then shall your Father which is in Heaven forgive your trespasses?’”
“Then,” said Philippa, after a minute’s silence, during which she was deeply meditating, “what we give to God is these graces of which you speak?—we give Him faith, and love, and obedience?”
“Assuredly—when He hath first implanted all within us.”
“But what do we give of ourselves?” asked Philippa in a puzzled tone.
“We give ourselves.”
“This giving of ourselves, then,” pursued Philippa slowly, “maketh the grace of condignity?”