Araminta turned toward him obediently, but she was still sobbing.

"It is a world of mystery," he went on. "We do not know why we come nor where we go--we only know that we come and that eventually, we go.

Yet I do not think that any one of us nor any number of us have the right to say what the rest of us shall believe.

"I cannot think of Heaven as a place spa.r.s.ely populated by my own sect, with a world of sinners languishing in flames below. I think of Heaven as a sunny field, where clover blooms and birds sing all day. There are trees, with long, cool shadows where the weary may rest; there is a crystal stream where they may forget their thirst. I do not think of Heaven as a place of judgment, but rather of pardon and love.

"Punishment there is, undoubtedly, but it has seemed to me that we are sufficiently punished here for all we do that is wrong. We don't intend to do wrong, Araminta--we get tired, and things and people worry us, and we are unjust. We are like children afraid in the dark; we live in a world of doubting, we are made the slaves of our own fears, and so we shirk."

"But the burning," said Araminta, wiping her eyes. "Is n.o.body ever to be burned?"

"The G.o.d I worship," answered Thorpe, pa.s.sionately, "never could be cruel, but there are many G.o.ds, it seems, and many strange beliefs.

Listen, Araminta. Whom do you love most?"

"Aunt Hitty?" she questioned.

"No, you don't have to say that if it isn't so. You can be honest with me. Who, of all the world, is nearest to you? Whom would you choose to be with you always, if you could have only one?"

"Doctor Ralph!" cried Araminta, her eyes shining.

"I thought so," replied Thorpe. "I don't know that I blame you. Now suppose Doctor Ralph did things that hurt you; that there was continual misunderstanding and distrust. Suppose he wronged you, cruelly, and apparently did everything he could to distress you and make you miserable. Could you condemn him to a lake of fire?"

"Why, no!" she cried. "I'd know he never meant to do it!"

"Suppose you knew he meant it?" persisted Thorpe, looking at her keenly.

"Then," said Araminta, tenderly, "I'd feel very, very sorry."

"Exactly, and why? Because, as you say, you love him. And G.o.d is love, Araminta. Do you understand?"

Upon the cramped and imprisoned soul of the child, the light slowly dawned. "G.o.d is love," she repeated, "and n.o.body would burn people they loved."

There was an illuminating silence, then Thorpe spoke again. He told Araminta of a love so vast and deep that it could not be measured by finite standards; of infinite pity and infinite pardon. This love was everywhere; it was impossible to conceive of a place where it was not--it enveloped not only the whole world, but all the shining worlds beyond. And this love, in itself and of itself, was G.o.d.

"This," said Araminta, touching the book timidly; "is it bad?"

"Nothing is bad," explained Thorpe, carefully, "which does not harm you or some one else. Of the two, it is better to harm yourself than another. How does the book make you feel?"

"It makes me feel as if the world was a beautiful place, and as if I ought to be better, so I could make it still more beautiful by living in it."

"Then, Araminta, it is a good book."

Thorpe went down-stairs strangely uplifted. To him, Truth was not a creed, but a light which illumined all creeds. His soul was aflame with eagerness to help and comfort the whole world. Miss Evelina was waiting in the hall, veiled and silent, as always.

She opened the door, but Thorpe lingered, striving vainly for the right word. He could not find it, but he had to speak.

"Miss Evelina," he stammered, the high colour mounting to his temples, "if there should ever be anything I can do for you, will you let me know?"

She seemed to shrink back into her veil. "Yes," she said, at length, "I will." Then, fearing she had been ungracious, she added: "Thank you."

His mood of exaltation was still upon him, and he wandered long in the woods before going home. His spirit dwelt in the high places, and from the height he gained the broad view.

When he entered the house. Miss Mehitable was waiting for him with a torrent of questions. When he had an opportunity to reply he reported that he had seen Doctor Ralph and Araminta could come home almost any time, now. Yes, he had talked with Araminta about her soul, and she had cried. He thought he had done her good by going, and was greatly indebted to Miss Mehitable for the suggestion.

XVI

The March of the Days

Out in the garden, the Piper was attending to his belated planting. He had cleared the entire place, repaired the wall, and made flower-beds in fantastic shapes that pleased his own fancy. To-day, he was putting in the seeds, while Laddie played about his feet, and Miss Evelina stood by, timidly watchful.

"I do not see," she said, "why you take so much trouble to make me a garden. n.o.body was ever so good to me before."

The Piper laughed and paused a moment to wipe his ruddy face. "Did n.o.body ever care before whether or not you had a garden?"

"Never," returned Evelina, sadly.

"Then 't is time some one did, so Laddie and I have come to make it for you, but I'm thinking 't is largely for ourselves, too, since the doing is the best part of anything."

Miss Evelina made no answer. Speech did not come easily to her after twenty-five years of habitual repression.

"'T will be a brave garden," continued the Piper, cheerily. "Marigolds and larkspur and mignonette; phlox and lad's love, rosemary, lavender, and verbena, and many another that you'll not guess till the time comes for blossoming."

"Lad's love grew in my garden once," sighed Evelina, after a little.

"It was sweet while it lasted--oh, but it was sweet!"

She spoke so pa.s.sionately that the Piper gathered the underlying significance of her words.

"You're speaking of another garden, I think," he ventured; "the garden in your heart. "'T is meet that lad's love should grow there. Are you sure 't was not a weed?"

"Yes, it was a weed," she replied, bitterly. "The mistake was mine."

The Piper leaned on his rake thoughtfully. "'T is hard, I think," he said, "for us to see that the mistakes are all ours. The Gardener plants rightly, but we are never satisfied. When sweet herbs are meant for us, we ask for roses, and 't is not every garden in which a rose will bloom. If we could keep it clean of weeds, and make it free of all anger and distrust, there'd be heartsease there instead of thorns."

"Heartsease?" asked Evelina, piteously. "I thought there was no more!"

"Lady," said the Piper, "there is heartsease for the asking. I'm thinking 't is you who have spoiled your garden."

"No!" cried Evelina. "Believe me, it was not I!"

"Who else?" queried the Piper, with a look which made her shrink farther back into the shelter of her chiffon. "Ah, I was not asking a question that needed an answer; I do not concern myself with names and things. But ask this of yourself--is there sin on your soul?"

"No," she whispered, "unless it be a sin to suffer for twenty-five years."

"Another's sin, then? You're grieving because another has done wrong?"

"Because another has done wrong to me." The Piper came to her and laid his hand very gently upon hers. There was rea.s.surance in the friendly, human touch. "'T is there," he said, "that the trouble lies. 'T is not for you to suffer because you are wronged, but for the one who has wronged you. He must have been very dear to you, I'm thinking; else you would not hide the beauty of your face."