“Yes,” said Miss Ross; “I like that story. We have got to find her. And those who have grudges against Fate, and grievances, are the people who expect her to find them.
“I assure you, my dear children, I’ve more sympathy with murderers than with grumblers; they at least have some compelling motive, are strongly exercised by hatred or revenge. (I rather like people who can hate, very few people can do it.) But grumblers—I place them in the same class as those who talk about being resigned. Let there be fortitude; indeed if we are to face life at all, we must have it. But resignation, I despise.”
Miss Ross rose from her chair, and a piece of paper fell on the ground beside her. Clare picked it up to return it, but she had already passed down the room. And as Clare’s glance fell on the paper she saw that it was poetry written there.
“No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere.
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And Faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds,