He shook his head. "I must follow what light I have," he said.
"But, Gordon," I went on, still hoping against hope, "I'm sure it would come all right. We'll study those things out together, dear—and I'll help you. I've learned a lot about them, ever since that night—that night, you remember, when Jennie died. And I'll try and explain everything," I pleaded pitifully, the pathos of it all coming over me as I looked up at the strong and intellectual face, "and we'll both go on together—in the old paths—and I'll try so hard to help you, dear. Then we won't have to go away at all—or give up our house—and it's all so dark ahead of us, for the children, I mean."
"I can't sell my soul for bread, Helen," he answered solemnly; "and I know as well as you what it all means. My father's heart is nearly broken now."
"And, Gordon," I whispered, still pressing my poor plea, "there's another thing we'll do," as I drew his face down beside my lips.
"What, dearest?"
"We'll—we'll pray together, Gordon; every day," I faltered, "every day, that God will make us believe the right things. And He will—I know He will."
"I've prayed that for long," he murmured low. "Oh, my darling, I love you so," and his lips pressed themselves to mine with a reverence and a passion I had never felt before.
******
Let me write it down, for the comfort of every troubled heart, that the holiest hours in all life's retrospect are those that are clothed in sorrow. The years have fled; yet the years are with me still. And when one sits in the gloaming (as I sit now) and looks back at all the distant days, the lure that casts its spell upon the heart comes not from the radiant hour of mirth or ecstasy; nor from the period of glad prosperity; nor from the season of echoing mirth and laughter. Not there does Memory ask leave to linger. But it hovers long, in sweet and heartful reverie, about some hour of tender grief, some season of blessed pain—blessed always, tender evermore, because it has been glorified by love, robbed of all its bitterness by the loyalty of some dear heart that came closer and closer to your own amid the darkness.
The home of early married life is the heart's earthly home forever. I knew that now; and memory bathes the soul in tears as I recall our last night beneath the roof of that St. Andrew's manse. Everything was packed and ready. The new house, the tiny, shabby house that was next day to become our home, was waiting for our advent. The rude but loving hands of some of the helpers at the mission had joined with ours to make it ready. And for our living there, they were providing us with a little salary; pitifully small—but our children would have clothes and bread.