"How have you been, since I saw you last?"
The eyes were bright, not with the specular brightness of many eyes, but with a sort of fulness of light and keenness of intelligent vision. Eleanor knew perfectly well to what they referred. She shrank within herself, cowered, and hesitated. Then made a brave effort and threw back the question.
"How have you been, Mr. Rhys?"
"I have been well," he said. "You know it is the privilege of the children of God, to glory in tribulations. That is what I am doing."
"Have you been so very ill?" asked Eleanor.
"My illness gives me no pain," he answered; "it only incapacitates me for doing anything. And at first that was more grievous to me than you can understand. With so much to do, and with my heart in the work, it seemed as if my Master had laid me aside and said, 'You shall do no more; you shall lie there and not speak my name to men any longer.' It gave me great pain at first—I was tempted to rebel; but now I know that patience worketh experience. I thank him for the lessons he has taught me. I am willing to go out and be useful, or to lie here and be comparatively useless,—just as my Lord will!"
The slow deliberate utterance, which testified at once of physical weakness and mental power; the absolute repose of the bright face, touched Eleanor profoundly. She sat spell-bound, forgetting her overthrow and her fatigue and everything else; only conscious of her struggling thoughts and cares of the weeks past and of the presence and influence of the one person she knew who had the key to them.
"Having so few opportunities," he went on, "you will not be surprised that I hail every one that offers, of speaking in my Mater's name. I know that he has summoned you to his service, Miss Powle—is he your Master yet?"
Eleanor pushed her chair round, grating it on the floor, so as to turn her face a little away, and answered, "No."
"You have heard his call to you?"