“Yes, I—I know that,” she said, almost in a whisper. “And I’ll try not to worry, for his,—for all our sakes. You’re right, you dear, kind old boy; but—”
“We can do nothing,” I went on. “Even if she is ill, or in danger, we can do nothing till we have news of her. But she is in God’s hands, as we all are, little woman.”
“I do pray for her, Maurice,” she avowed piteously. “But—but—”
“That’s all you can do, dear, but it is much also. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Keep on praying—and trusting—and the prayers will be answered.”
She looked at me through her tears, lovingly, but with some astonishment.
“Why, Maurice, I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”
“I couldn’t have said it to any one but you, dear,” I said gruffly; and we were silent for a spell. But she understood me, for we both come from the same sturdy old Puritan stock; we were both born and reared in the faith of our fathers; and in this period of doubt and danger and suffering it was strange how the old teaching came back to me, the firm fixed belief in God “our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” That faith had led our fathers to the New World, three centuries ago, had sustained them from one generation to another, in the face of difficulties and dangers incalculable; had made of them a great nation; and I knew it now for my most precious heritage.
“I should utterly have fainted; but that I believe verily to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure; be strong and He shall comfort thy heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.
”Through God we will do great acts; and it is He that shall tread down our enemies.”