"God has chosen to try me for a purpose, Aunt Bell," he said very simply. "I ought to be proud of it— eager for any test—and I am. True, in these last years I had looked upon grandfather's fortune as mine— not only by implied promise, but by all standards of right—even of integrity. For surely a man could not more nearly forfeit his own rights, in every moral aspect, than poor Bernal has—though I meant always to stand by him. So you see, I must conclude that God means to distinguish me by a test. He may even subject me to others; but I shall not wince. I shall welcome His trials. He turned upon her the face of simple faith."
"Did you speak to that lawyer about the possibility of a contest—of proving unsound mind?"
"I did, but he saw no chance whatever."
Aunt Bell hereupon surveyed her beautifully dimpled knuckles minutely, with an affectionate pride—a pride not uncritical, yet wholly convinced.
"Of course," added Allan after a moment's reflection, "there's no sense in believing that every bit of one's hard luck is sent by God to test one. One must in all reverence take every precaution to prove that the disaster is not humanly remediable. And this, I may say, I have done with thoroughness—with great thoroughness."
"Bernal may be dead," suggested Aunt Bell, brightening now from an impartial admiring of the toes of her small, plump slippers.
"God forbid that he should be cut off in his unbelief —but then, God's will be done. If that be true, of course, the matter is different. Meantime we are advertising."
"I wish I had your superb faith, Allan. I wish Nancy had it...."
Her niece's husband turned his head and shoulders until she had the three-quarters view of his face.
"I have faith, Aunt Bell. God knows my unworthiness, even as you know it and I know it—but I have faith!"