He waited to know what effect his words were having. Suddenly he heard the strange, hard voice again. “Uncle Basil.”
“Well, my child.”
“I want you to tell me one thing. I have to understand this, but I can’t—I can’t ask anybody.”
“What is it, Sylvia?”
“I want to know—do men do such things?”
The Bishop answered, in a low tone, “Yes, my child, I am sorry to say—many of them do.”
“Oh, I hate them!” she cried, with sudden fierceness. “I hate them! I hate life! It’s a shameful, hideous world, and I wish that I could die!”
“Ah, don’t say that, my child!” he pleaded. “I beg you not to take it that way. If we let affliction harden us, instead of chastening and humbling us, then we miss all the purpose for which it is sent. Who knows, Sylvia—perhaps this is a punishment which God in His wisdom has adjudged you?”
“Punishment, Uncle Basil? What have I done?”
“You have denied His word, my child. You have presumed to set your own feeble mind against His will and doctrine. And now——”