A few moments later he got up, gave her a brief kiss, and departed.
Stella sat on with her chin in her hand, every line of her expressing the weariness of the hopeless watcher. She looked crushed, as if a burden she could hardly support had been laid upon her.
Bernard looked at her once or twice without speaking. Finally he too rose, went round to her, knelt beside her, put his arm about her.
Her face quivered a little. "I've got—to keep strong," she said, in the tone of one who had often said the same thing in solitude.
"I know," he said. "And so you will. There's special strength given for such times as these. It won't fail you now."
She put her hand into his. "Thank you," she said. And then, with an effort, "Do you know, Bernard, I tried—I really tried—to pray in the night before I lay down. But—there was something so wicked about it—I simply couldn't."
"One can't always," he said.
"Oh, have you found that too?" she asked.
He smiled at the question. "Of course I have. So has everybody. We're only children, Stella. God knows that. He doesn't expect of us more than we can manage. Prayer is only one of the means we have of reaching Him. It can't be used always. There are some people who haven't time for prayer even, and yet they may be very near to God. In times of stress like yours one is often much nearer than one realizes. You will find that out quite suddenly one of these days, find that through all your desert journeying, He has been guiding you, protecting you, surrounding you with the most loving care. And—because the night was dark—you never knew it."
"The night is certainly very dark," Stella said with a tremulous smile. "If it weren't for you I don't think I could ever get through."