“I will; indeed I will, dear Euphra,” was still Harry’s reply.
Once, expressing to Margaret her regret that she should be such a trouble to her, she said:
“You have to do so much for me, that I am ashamed.”
“Do let me wash the feet of one of his disciples;” Margaret replied, gently expostulating; after which, Euphra never grumbled at her own demands upon her.
Again, one day, she said:
“I am not right at all to-day, Margaret. God can’t love me, I am so hateful.”
“Don’t measure God’s mind by your own, Euphra. It would be a poor love that depended not on itself, but on the feelings of the person loved. A crying baby turns away from its mother’s breast, but she does not put it away till it stops crying. She holds it closer. For my part, in the worst mood I am ever in, when I don’t feel I love God at all, I just look up to his love. I say to him: ‘Look at me. See what state I am in. Help me!’ Ah! you would wonder how that makes peace. And the love comes of itself; sometimes so strong, it nearly breaks my heart.”
“But there is a text I don’t like.”
“Take another, then.”
“But it will keep coming.”