He looked the curate in the face with such wild eyes as convinced him that, even if perfectly sane at present, he was in no small danger of losing his reason.

“Then you would willingly give up this large fortune,” he said, “and return to your former condition?”

“Rather than not be able to pray—­I would!  I would!” he cried; then paused and added, “—­if only He would give me enough to pay my debts and not have to beg of other people.”

Then, with a tone suddenly changed to one of agonized effort, with clenched hands, and eyes shut tight, he cried vehemently, as if in the face of a lingering unwillingness to encounter again the miseries through which he had been passing.

“No, no, Lord!  Forgive me.  I will not think of conditions.  Thy will be done!  Take the money and let me be a debtor and a beggar if Thou wilt, only let me pray to Thee; and do Thou make it up to my creditors.”

Wingfold’s spirit was greatly moved.  Here was victory!  Whether the fortune was a fact or fancy, made no feature of difference.  He thanked God and took courage.  The same instant the door opened, and Dorothy came in hesitating, and looking strangely anxious.  He threw her a face-question.  She gently bowed her head, and gave him a letter with a broad black border which she held in her hand.

He read it.  No room for rational doubt was left.  He folded it softly, gave it back to her, and rising, kneeled down by the bedside, near the foot, and said—­

“Father, whose is the fullness of the earth, I thank Thee that Thou hast set my brother’s heel on the neck of his enemy.  But the suddenness of Thy relief from holy poverty and evil care, has so shaken his heart and brain, or rather, perhaps, has made him think so keenly of his lack of faith in his Father in heaven, that he fears Thou hast thrown him the gift in disdain, as to a dog under the table, though never didst Thou disdain a dog, and not given it as to a child, from Thy hand into his.  Father, let Thy spirit come with the gift, or take it again, and make him poor and able to pray.”—­Here came an amen, groaned out as from the bottom of a dungeon.—­“Pardon him, Father,” the curate prayed on, “all his past discontent and the smallness of his faith.  Thou art our Father, and Thou knowest us tenfold better than we know ourselves; we pray Thee not only to pardon us, but to make all righteous excuse for us, when we dare not make any for ourselves, for Thou art the truth.  We will try to be better children.  We will go on climbing the mount of God through all the cloudy darkness that swaths it, yea, even in the face of the worst terrors—­that when we reach the top, we shall find no one there.”—­Here Dorothy burst into sobs.—­“Father!” thus the curate ended his prayer, “take pity on Thy children.  Thou wilt not give them a piece of bread, in place of a stone—­to poison them!  The egg Thou givest will not be a serpent’s.  We are Thine, and Thou art ours:  in us be Thy will done!  Amen.”