"Yes; if one is ever to grow to a richer growth and bring forth better fruit. And anything that stops growing, begins to die."
Rotha gave him a peculiar, thoughtful look, and then went on with her drawing.
"Understand me, Rotha," he said, catching the look. "I am talking of the dissatisfaction of a person who is doing his best. The fact that one is dissatisfied when not doing his best, proves simply that feeling is not dead yet. There is no comfort to be drawn from that."
Rotha went on drawing and did not look up, this time. Mr. Digby considered how he should say what he wanted to say.
"Rotha—" he began, "how is it with that question you were once concerned about? Are you any nearer being a Christian?"
"I don't know, sir. I do not think I am."
"What hinders?"
"I suppose," said Rotha, playing with her pencil absently,—"the old hindrance."
"You do not wish to be a Christian."
"Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I do. But I—cannot."