I noticed from that time more than ever his tender lingering looks upon me, wistful, and doubtful. It was hard to bear them, and I would not confess to them. I would not and did not show by look or word that I put faith in the story my father had brought me, or that I had lost faith in any one who had ever commanded it. Indeed I did not believe the story. I did trust Mr. Thorold. Nevertheless the cold chill of a "What if?"

- fell upon me sometimes. Could I say that it was an impossibility, that he should have turned from me, from one whom such a thorn hedge of difficulties encompa.s.sed, to another woman so much, - I was going to say, so much more beautiful; but I do not mean that, for I do not think it. No, but to one whose beauty was so brilliant and whose hand was so attainable? It would not be an impossibility in the case of many men. Yes, I trusted Mr. Thorold; but so had other women trusted. A woman's trust is not a guarantee for the worthiness of its object. I had only my trust and my knowledge. Could I say that both might not be mistaken? And trust as I would, these thoughts would rise.

Now it was very hard for me to meet Faustina St. Clair, and bear the supercilious air of confident triumph with which she regarded me. I think n.o.body could have observed this or read it but myself only; its tokens were too exceedingly slight and inappreciable for anything but the tension of my own heart to feel. I always felt it, whenever we were in company together; and though I always said at such times, "Christian cannot love her," - when I was at home and alone, the shadow of doubt and jealousy came over me again. Everything withers in that shadow. A woman must either put it out of her heart, somehow, or grow a diseased and sickly thing, mentally and morally. I found that I was coming to this in my own mind and character; and that brought me to a stand.

I shut myself up one or two nights - I could not command my days - and spent the whole night in thinking and praying. Two things were before me. The story might be somehow untrue. Time would show. In the meanwhile, nothing but trust would have done honour to Mr. Thorold or to myself. I thought it was untrue. But suppose it were not, - suppose that the joy of my life were gone, pa.s.sed over to another; who had done it? By whose will was my life stripped? The false faith or the weakness of friend or enemy could not have wrought thus, if it had not been the will of G.o.d that His child should be so tried; that she should go through just this sorrow, for some great end or reason known only to Himself. Could I not trust Him -?

If there is a vulture whose claws are hard to unloose from the vitals of the spirit, I think it is jealousy. I found it had got hold of me, and was tearing the life out of me. I knew it in time. O sing praise to our King, you who know Him! he is mightier than our enemies; we need not be the prey of any. But I struggled and prayed, more than one night through, before faith could gain the victory. Then it did. I gave the matter into my Lord's hands. If he had decreed that I was to lose Mr.

Thorold, and in this way, - why, I was my Lord's, to do with as He pleased; it would all be wise and glorious, and kind too, whatever He did. I would just leave that. But in the mean time, till I knew that He had taken my joy from me, I would not believe it; but would go on trusting the friend I had believed so deserving of trust. I would believe in Mr. Thorold still and be quiet, till I knew my confidence was misplaced.

It was thoroughly done at last. I gave up myself to G.o.d again and my affairs; and the rest that is unknown anywhere else, came to me at His feet. I gave up being jealous of Faustina.

If the Lord pleased that she should have what had been so precious to me, why, well! I gave it up. But not till I was sure I had cause.

What a lull came upon my hara.s.sed and tossed spirit, which had been like a stormy sea under cross winds. Now it lay still, and could catch the reflection of the sun again and the blue of heaven. I could go into society now and please mamma, and read at home to papa and give him the wonted gratification; and I could meet Faustina with an open brow and a free hand.

"Daisy, you are better this day or two," papa said to me, wistfully. "You are like yourself. What is it, my child?"

"It is Christ, my Lord, papa."

"I do not know what you can mean by that, Daisy," said papa, looking grave. "You are not an enthusiast or a fanatic."

"It is not enthusiasm, papa, to believe G.o.d's promises. It can't be fanaticism, to be glad of them."

"Promises?" said papa. "What are you talking of?"

"Papa, I am a servant of Christ," I said; I remember I was arranging the sticks of wood on the fire as I spoke, and it made pauses between my words; - "and He has promised to take care of His servants and to let no harm come to them, - no real harm; - how can I be afraid, papa? My Lord knows, - He knows all about it and all about me; I am safe; I have nothing to do to be afraid."

"Safe from what?"

"Not from trouble, papa; I do not mean that. He may see that it is best that trouble should come to me. But it will not come unless He sees that it is best; and I can trust Him."

"My dear child, is there not a little fanaticism there?"

"How, papa?"

"It seems to me to sound like it."

"It is nothing but believing G.o.d, papa."

"I wish I understood you," said papa, thoughtfully.

So I knelt down beside him and put my arms about him, and told him what I wanted him to understand; much more than I had ever been able to do before. The pain and sorrow of the past few weeks had set me free, and the rest of heart of the last few days too. I told papa all about it. I think, as Philip did to Queen Candace's servant, I "preached to him Jesus."

"So that is what you mean by being a Christian," said papa at last. "It is not living a good moral life and keeping all one's engagements."

" 'By the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified.'

Even you, papa, are not good enough for that. G.o.d's law calls for perfection."

"n.o.body is perfect."

"No, papa; and so all have come short of the glory of G.o.d."

"Well, then, I don't see what you are going to do, Daisy."

"Christ has paid our debt, papa."

"Then n.o.body need do anything."

"Oh, no, papa; for the free pardon that is made out for you and me - the white robe that Christ counsels us to buy of Him - waits for our acceptance and is given only on conditions. It is ready for every one who will trust Christ and obey Him; a free pardon, papa; a white robe that will hide all our ugliness. But we must be willing to have it on the conditions."

"And how then, Daisy?"

"Why, this way, papa. See, - I am dead - with Christ; it is as if I myself had died under the law, instead of my subst.i.tute; the penalty is paid, and the law has nothing to say to a dead malefactor, you know, papa. And now, I am dead to the law, and my life is Christ's. I live because He lives, and by His Spirit living in me; all I am and have belongs to Christ; the life that I live, I live by the faith of the Son of G.o.d, who loved me and gave Himself for me. I am not trying to keep the law, to buy my life; but I am _keeping_ the law, because Christ has given me life - do you see, papa? and all my life is love to Him."

"It seems to me, Daisy," said papa, "that if faith is all, people may lead what lives they choose."

"Papa, the faith that believes in Christ, loves and obeys Him; or it is just no faith. It is nothing. It is dead."

"And faith makes such a change in people's feelings and lives?"

"Why, yes, papa, for then they live by Christ's strength and not their own; and in the love of Him, and not in the love of themselves any longer."

"Daisy," said papa, "it is something I do not know, and I see that you do know; and I would like to be like you anyhow. Pray for me, my child, that I may have that faith."

I had never done it in his presence before, but now I knelt down by the table and uttered all my heart to the One who could hear us both. I could not have done it, I think, a few weeks earlier; but this last storm had seemed to shake me free from everything. What mattered, if I could only help to show papa the way? He was weeping, I think, while I was praying; I thought he sought to hide the traces of it when I rose up; and I went from the room with a gladness in my heart that said, "What if, even if Thorold is lost to me! There is something better beyond."

Papa and I seemed to walk on a new plane from that day. There was a hidden sympathy between us, which had its root in the deepest ground of our nature. We never had been one before, as we were one from that time.

It was but a few days, and another thing happened. The mail bag had come in as usual, and I had gathered up my little parcel of letters and gone with it to my room, before I examined what they were. A letter evidently from Mr. Dinwiddie had just made my heart leap with pleasure, when glancing at the addresses of the rest before I broke the seal of this, I saw what made my heart stand still. It was the handwriting of Mr. Thorold. I think my eyes grew dim and dazed for a minute; then I saw clearly enough to open the envelope, which showed signs of having been a traveller. There was a letter for me, such a letter as I had wanted; such as I had thirsted for; it was not long, for it was written by a busy man, but it was long enough, for it satisfied my thirst. Enclosed with it was another envelope directed to papa.

I waited to get calm again; for the joy which shot through all my veins was a kind of elixir of life; it produced too much exhilaration for me to dare to see anybody. Yet I think I was weeping; but at any rate, I waited till my nerves were quiet and under control, and then I went with the letter to papa. I knew mamma was just gone out and there was no fear of interruption. Papa read the letter, and read it, and looked up at me.

"Do you know what this is, Daisy?"

"Papa, I guess. I know what it was meant to be."

"It is a cool demand of you," said papa.

I was glad, and proud; that was what it ought to be; that was what I knew it suited papa that it should be. I stood by the mantelpiece, waiting.

"So you knew about it?"

"Mr. Thorold said he would write to you, papa. I had been afraid, and asked him not. I wanted him to wait till he could see you."

"One sees a good deal of a man in his letters," said papa; "and this is a man's letter. He thinks enough of himself, Daisy."

"Papa, - not too much."

"I did not say too much; but enough; and a man who does not think enough of himself is a poor creature. I would not have a man ask me for you, Daisy, who did not in his heart think he was worthy of you."