“Yes, sir.”

“And without any fault of his own suffers horribly,” continued the lawyer, sternly.

“We are all faulty, sir.”

“I mean—­did anybody ever hear such reasoning!  Excuse me, but I am a little out of sorts,” he growled, apologetically—­“I mean that you may suppose a man to suffer some peculiar torture—­torture, you understand—­which he has not deserved.  I suppose that has happened; how can such a man have your faith, and love, and trust, and all that—­if we must talk theology!” growled the bearish speaker.

“But, Mr. Rushton,” said Redbud, “is not heaven worth all the world and its affections?”

“Yes—­your heaven is.”

“My heaven—?”

“Yes, yes—­heaven!” cried the lawyer, impatiently—­“everybody’s heaven that chooses.  But you were about to say—­”

“This, sir:  that if heaven is so far above earth, and those who are received there by God, enjoy eternal happiness—­”

“Very well!”

“That this inestimable gift is cheaply bought by suffering in this world;—­that the giver of this great good has a right to try even to what may seem a cruel extent, the faith and love of those for whom he decrees this eternal bliss.  Is not that rational, sir?”

“Yes, and theological—­what, however, is one to do if the said love and faith sink and disappear—­are drowned in tears, or burnt up in the fires of anguish and despair.”

“Pray, sir,” said Redbud, softly.

The lawyer growled.

“To whom?  To a Being whom we have no faith in—­whom such a man has no faith in, I mean to say—­to the hand that struck—­which we can only think of as armed with an avenging sword, or an all-consuming firebrand!  Pray to one who stands before us as a Nemesis of wrath and terror, hating and ready to crush us?—­humph!”

And the lawyer wiped his brow.

“Can’t we think of the Creator differently,” said Redbud, earnestly.

“How?”

“As the Being who came down upon the earth, and suffered, and wept tears of blood, was buffeted and crowned with thorns, and crucified like a common, degraded slave—­all because he loved us, and would not see us perish?  Oh!  Mr. Rushton, if there are men who shrink from the terrible God—­who cannot love that phase of the Almighty, why should they not turn to the Saviour, who, God as he was, came down and suffered an ignominious death, because he loved them—­so dearly loved them!”

Mr. Rushton was silent for a moment; then he said, coldly: 

“I did not intend to talk upon these subjects—­I only intended to say, that trusting in Providence, as the phrase is, sounds very grand; and has only the disadvantage of not being very easy.  Come, Miss Redbud, suppose we converse on the subject of flowers, or something that is more light and cheerful.”