"What is it that you are conscious of wanting?"
She hesitated; it was a home question; and very unaccustomed to speak of her secret thoughts and feelings to any one, especially on religious subjects, which however had never occupied her before, Eleanor was hardly ready to answer. Yet in the tones of the question there was a certain quiet assurance and simplicity before which she yielded.
"I felt—a little while ago—when I was sick—that I was not exactly safe."
Eleanor spoke, hesitating between every few words, looking down, and falling her voice at the end. So she did not see the keen intentness of the look that was fixed upon her.
"You felt that there was something wanting between you and God?"
"I believe so."
His accent was as deliberately clear as her's was hesitating. Every word went into Eleanor's soul.
"Then you can understand now, that when one can say, joyfully, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth';—when he is no vague abstraction, but felt to be a Redeemer;—when one can say assuredly, he is my Redeemer; I know he has bought back my soul from sin and from the punishment of sin, which is death; I feel I am forgiven; and I know he liveth—my Redeemer—and according to his promise lives to deliver me from every evil and will preserve me unto his heavenly kingdom;—do you see, now, that one who can say this has on his head the covering of an infinite protection—an infinite shelter from both danger and fear?—a helmet, placed on his head by his Lord's own hand, and of such heavenly temper that no blows can break through it."
Eleanor was a little time silent, with downcast eyes.
"You do not mean to say, that this protection is against all evil; do you? sickness and pain are evils are they not?"