“Child,” I whispered, “it is true. It is good just to live. But remember also that the old faith may be true. God may be, and may be love.”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, looking up. “I haven’t any opinions.”
Then a mist came over her eyes, for even her new comfort was swept away by the waves of her sorrow; and she bowed her head upon her hands with the cry that has ever been the one irrefutable witness to His presence: “O my God!”
CHAPTER XLIII
We are all busy still, and yet the world is not saved.
The Anarchist is perfecting the process that shall bring his millennium to be, and the young Socialists in Barnet House are working out the details of their new economic order. The Altruist still translates the infinite into finite terms; the Young Reformer is on the platform; I toil daily in the self-same Cause, but the world is not saved.
Many times since we closed ranks and marched onward over the Lad’s grave I have paused, disheartened. Full assurance has not been granted me, and it is my lot in doing battle to strike often in the dark. Yet I have moments when I know that the strife is not in vain. In these I wonder why we are so troubled about our duty to our fellow-man, and about our knowledge of God. The one command in regard to our neighbour is not obscure. And our foreboding lest our faith in God shall escape us seems futile, inasmuch as we cannot escape from our faith.
THE END
THE IRIS SERIES