“You have sometimes made me believe,” Stephen returned, “that I may account myself, under God, the accident which induced you to take up your blessed work. I was thinking of that.”
“Oh,” she said, “of that!” and seemed to take refuge in silence.
“Yes,” Arnold said, with infinite gentleness.
“But you were profoundly the cause! I might say you are, for without you I doubt whether I should have the—courage—”
“Oh no! Oh no! He who inspired you in the beginning will sustain you to the end. Think that. Believe that.”
“Will He?” Her voice was neutral, as if it would not betray too much, but there was a listlessness that spoke louder in the bend of her head, the droop of her shoulder.
“For you perhaps,” Arnold said thoughtfully, “there is only one assurance of it—the satisfaction your vocation brings you now. That will broaden and increase,” he went on, almost with buoyancy, “growing more and more your supreme good as the years go on.”
“How much you give me credit for!”
“Not nearly enough—not nearly. Who is there like you?” he demanded simply.
His words seemed a baptism. She lifted up her face after them, and the trace of them was on her eyes and lips. “I have passed two examinations, at all events,” she informed him, with sudden gaiety, “and Sister Ann Frances says that in two or three months I shall probably get through the others. Sister Ann Frances thinks me more intelligent than might be expected. And if I do pass those examinations I shall be what they call a quick-time probationer. I shall have got it over in six months. Do you think,” she asked, as if to please herself; “that six months will be long enough?”