At that cottage, about the same time, a great change had taken place in Jeff Benson—spiritually, not physically, though even in the latter respect he was at all events not worse than usual. Having gone from bad to worse in his rebellion, he had at last reached that lowest depth wherein he not only despaired of the doctor’s power to cure him, and his own power of constitution, but began silently, and in his own mind, to charge his Maker with having made a complete failure in his creation.
“Life is a muddle, auntie, altogether!” he exclaimed when he reached this point. It was the lowest ebb—hopeless despair alike of himself and his God.
“A muddle, Jeff?” said the little woman, raising her eyebrows slightly. “How can that be possible in the work of a Perfect Creator, and a Perfect Saviour who redeems from all evil—your supposed ‘muddle’ included?”
Our young coastguardsman was silent. It was probably the great turning-point when the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see Jesus, and all things in relation to Him. For a long time he did not speak. The lips of his nurse were also silent, but her heart was not so. At last Jeff spoke—
“It must be so. Perfection is bound to work out perfection. This apparent evil must be for good. ‘He doeth all things well.’ Surely I have read that somewhere!”
In a low clear voice his nurse said—
“‘He doeth all things well,’
We say it now with tears;
But we shall sing it with those we love
Through bright eternal years.”
“I think the light is dawning, auntie.”
“I am sure it is, Jeff.”
Again they were silent, and thus they remained while the natural light faded, until the western sky and sea were dyed in crimson.