He looked at her startled. Had the terrible rumor reached her which they were striving to keep from her, that the little, royal, innocent life had been the victim of some intrigue—that the sudden, fatal illness had not been sent by Heaven? The rumor had been sifted, and no clue had been found, while yet it might not be wholly dismissed. Yet was the fear of this horror added to the mother's anguish? Nothing but action would save her from madness.
Then suddenly his weakness left him, because of her need; he felt that he must hold her in her place at all costs. He rose and looked down upon her, steadying her by the magnetic strength in his face,—his eyes wild with the intensity of his belief.
"Whom He loveth, He chasteneth," he said. "It is granted thee to know the depth of the meaning of those holy words. The blessed Christus, with great drops of anguish falling from His sacred brows, cried out, 'Can any sorrow be like my sorrow?' God is not angry with thee, my daughter; but so He fashioneth a soul for His great work. Life is thy cross, my child. Lift it and clasp it—Heaven's peace shall be thine."
"Why not the Convent, Father?" she asked, still irresolute. "I am so weary."
Then his voice took on a note of authority—she shrank before it as the tones rang out like the cry of a prophet:
"It is not for thee; for thy place is here.
"If suffering is sent thee, thou must bear it here.
"If loneliness hath come to thee, thou shalt meet it here.
"If thou art desolate, the children of thy people are thine.
"If thy dream of love is broken, the love of thy people is about thee.