And Dorothy, half-startled, had answered: "O Louise, I don't mean to be irreverent, but I don't understand. How can God keep him from going, if he will go?"
And Louise, smiling outright now, so sure was she of her trust, had answered: "I don't know, dear; he has infinite resources; I only know that I believe he will do it."
Now what had become of her faith? It grieves my heart to have to confess to you that this young servant of Christ, who had felt his "sufficient grace" in her own experience again and again, allowed Satan to stand at her elbow and push before her that persistent and faithless "Why?"
It was that word in all its changes which was crowding into her heart, on that May morning, as she looked out at the dripping eaves and the leaden clouds.
[CHAPTER XXI.]
HEDGED IN.
As for John, perhaps he was quite as much astonished at the turn of events as was any of the family. It is true he had been threatening for many weeks to turn his back on the old homestead, but it is doubtful if he had really, during that time, a well-defined intention of doing any such thing.
No plans as to where he should go or what he should do had taken shape; only a vague unrest, and a more or less settled determination to some time get away from it all.
Therefore, as he turned his back on the familiar barns and long-stretching fields, and went out from them in the darkness of that May evening, not one of the family was more in fog as to what he would do next than was John himself. Instinctively he turned his steps to the village, spending the evening in his old haunt, showing only by a more reckless manner than usual that there had been any change in his life. In fact he realized no change; he never turned toward the family road leading homeward as he came out from that corner grocery at a later hour than usual; but he stopped abruptly before he reached the top of the hill, considered a moment, then turned and retraced his steps, and presently struck out boldly on the road leading cityward. The great city, only sixty miles away, was of course the first point for an enterprising young man about to start out in life for himself.
About midnight he reached the station where the express train stopped. By the station lamps he discovered that the eastern-bound train would be due in five minutes. He drew from his pocket the handful of silver and copper that constituted his available means, slowly counted them, lounged into the station, and inquired the price of a ticket to the city, then smiled grimly to himself to discover that after purchasing one he should have just fivepence left. "I guess I can live on that for a week or so," he muttered; "father could. If I can't I can starve. I'm going to the city anyhow." And the ticket was bought. Presently came the train, and our reckless young traveller sauntered into it, selected the best seat he could find, settled himself comfortably, and went to sleep, apparently indifferent to the fact that his mother was at that moment shedding bitter tears for him. No, he was not indifferent; would not have been, at least, had he known the fact. Nothing in all his young life's experience would have amazed him more. He did not understand his mother, which is not strange, perhaps, when one considers that she had spent years in learning how to hide her heart away from the sight of those she loved best. John Morgan actually did not believe that he had ever caused his mother to shed one tear; he did not believe that she loved him. What did he know about mother love, save as she revealed it to him?