CHAPTER IX.
THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF BATTLE.
On a Sunday afternoon these two, Ralph and Rhoda, had strayed out into the old orchard at the back of the house. The summer world was just then in all its glory. The meadows looked as if a flowery robe had been shaken out over them; the orchard grass was full of tall, shiny buttercups and large field-daisies, resplendent in their snowy frills. A turquoise sky smiled down through the leaf-laden boughs above their heads; bees were murmuring all around them.
“Mr. Channell,” asked Rhoda, suddenly, “you know Nelly’s father, don’t you?”
He stooped and gathered one of the large daisies. For a moment there was no reply. The bees filled up the pause while she waited for his answer.
“Yes,” he said at last, “I know him well.”
“Is he really penitent?” she inquired, doubtfully. “Does he think that what he has done has blotted out the past? It’s easy to whitewash a dirty wall, but the stains are underneath the whitewash still.”
“There is a vast difference between the stain which is only whitewashed over, and that which Christ’s blood has blotted out,” replied Mr. Channell. “I don’t believe that Robert Clarris can ever forget the past, or think that he has atoned for it. But he knows that the Lord has put away his sin.”
“How does he know it?” Rhoda demanded.