"But now, Piers, dear Piers, I want to ask your advice. I could not trouble Gilbert, he is very much hurt," and Joyce's voice faltered. "The man who saved Gilbert's life is Susan's father, Bob Priday."
Piers made a gesture of astonishment. "The man who took our father's life," he murmured.
"Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you help us, and come with us?"
"You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?"
"I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you know."
Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was emphatically the religion of Peace—and in quietness and confidence she could rest.
"It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this last act of grace."
"He does not deserve it."
"Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?"
"Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try to please you."