Conventional consolations, conventional verses out of the Bible and conventional prayers are, it seems to me, an intolerable aggravation of suffering.  And so I acted on a principle that I mentioned to your husband, that ’there is no power so great as that of one human faith looking upon another human faith’.  The promises of God, the love of Christ for little children, and all that has been given to us of hope and comfort, are as deeply planted in your heart as in mine, and I did not care to quote them.  But when I talk face to face with one who is in sore need of them, my faith in them suddenly becomes so vast and heart-stirring that I think I must help most by talking naturally, and letting the faith find its own way from soul to soul.  Indeed I could not find words for it if I tried.  And yet I am compelled, as a messenger of the glad tidings of God, to solemnly assure you that all is well.  We have no key to the ‘Mystery of Pain’, excepting the Cross of Christ.  But there is another and a deeper solution in the hands of our Father.  And it will be ours when we can understand it.  There is—­in the place to which we travel—­some blessed explanation of your baby’s pain and your grief, which will fill with light the darkest heart.  Now you must believe without having seen; that is true faith.  You must

  ’Reach a hand through time to catch
  The far-oft interest of tears’.

That you may have strength so to do is part of your share in the prayers of yours very faithfully, W. D——.”

During the summer months I saw much of this clergyman, Mr. D——­ and his wife.  We grew into closer intimacy in consequence of the dangerous illness of their only child, a beautiful boy a few months old.  I had gained quite a name in Cheltenham as a nurse—­my praises having been sung by the doctor—­and Mrs. D——­ felt she could trust me even with her darling boy while she snatched a night’s sorely needed rest.  My questionings were not shirked by Mr. D——­, nor discouraged; he was neither horrified nor sanctimoniously rebuking, but met them all with a wide comprehension inexpressibly soothing to one writhing in the first agony of real doubt.  The thought of hell was torturing me; somehow out of the baby’s pain through those seemingly endless hours had grown a dim realisation of what hell might be, full of the sufferings of the beloved, and my whole brain and heart revolted from the unutterable cruelty of a creating and destroying God.  Mr. D——­ lent me Maurice and Robertson, and strove to lead me into their wider hope for man, their more trustful faith in God.