“I am afraid I can’t listen to it.”
“Never mind. Don’t try. I want to read it.”
Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chapter of St. John’s Gospel which speaks about human labour and the bread of life. She stopped at these words:
“For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.”
Euphra’s tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret’s voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet.
“The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron?”
“You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive.”
“Then it cannot be God’s will that you should go to him.”
“But one does many things that are not God’s will.”
“But it is God’s will that you should not go to him.”