“Oh, Gwen, Gwen, He's not like that. Don't you remember how Jesus was with the poor sick people? That's what He's like.”
“Could Jesus make me well?”
“Yes, Gwen.”
“Then why doesn't He?” she asked; and there was no impatience now, but only trembling anxiety as she went on in a timid voice: “I asked Him to, over and over, and said I would wait two months, and now it's more than three. Are you quite sure He hears now?” She raised herself on her elbow and gazed searchingly into The Pilot's face. I was glad it was not into mine. As she uttered the words, “Are you quite sure?” one felt that things were in the balance. I could not help looking at The Pilot with intense anxiety. What would he answer? The Pilot gazed out of the window upon the hills for a few moments. How long the silence seemed! Then, turning, looked into the eyes that searched his so steadily and answered simply:
“Yes, Gwen, I am quite sure!” Then, with quick inspiration, he got her mother's Bible and said: “Now, Gwen, try to see it as I read.” But, before he read, with the true artist's instinct he created the proper atmosphere. By a few vivid words he made us feel the pathetic loneliness of the Man of Sorrows in His last sad days. Then he read that masterpiece of all tragic picturing, the story of Gethsemane. And as he read we saw it all. The garden and the trees and the sorrow-stricken Man alone with His mysterious agony. We heard the prayer so pathetically submissive and then, for answer, the rabble and the traitor.
Gwen was far too quick to need explanation, and The Pilot only said, “You see, Gwen, God gave nothing but the best—to His own Son only the best.”
“The best? They took Him away, didn't they?” She knew the story well.
“Yes, but listen.” He turned the leaves rapidly and read: “'We see Jesus for the suffering of death crowned with glory and honor.' That is how He got His Kingdom.”
Gwen listened silent but unconvinced, and then said slowly:
“But how can this be best for me? I am no use to anyone. It can't be best to just lie here and make them all wait on me, and—and—I did want to help daddy—and—oh—I know they will get tired of me! They are getting tired already—I—I—can't help being hateful.”