Never for a moment did the boy hold his parents responsible for his infirmity; but there came a day when he blamed his God.
“If God can do everything He likes, He could have made me quite right, and well. Why didn’t He, father?”
“I don’t know, my son.”
“You would make me better if you could! You said yourself you’d pay the doctor all your money. You are kinder than Him. I don’t think God is kind to me, father. It would have been so easy for Him—”
The wisdom for which Francis had prayed and struggled seemed a poor thing at that moment. He was dumb, and yet he dared not be dumb.
“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll tell you a secret—a secret between you and me... God sent me a great many blessings when I was young, and they did me no good. I was selfish, and careless, and blind, too, Frankie, though my eyes could see, and then after He had tried me with happiness and it had failed, He sent me”—the man’s voice trembled ominously—“a great grief! ... Frankie, old man, when I come to die, I believe I am going to thank God for that grief, more than for all the blessings which went before.”
The child sat silent, struggling for comprehension.
“What did the great grief do to you, father?”
Francis paused for a moment, struggling for composure. Then he spoke:
“It stabbed my dead heart wide awake!”