My brother man, is the idea of a God too good or too foolish for thy belief? or is it that thou art not great enough or humble enough to hold it?  In either case, I will believe it for thee and for me.  Only be not stiff-necked when the truth begins to draw thee:  thou wilt find it hard if she has to go behind and drive thee—­hard to kick against the divine goads, which, be thou ever so mulish, will be too much for thee at last.  Yea, the time will come when thou wilt goad thyself toward the divine.  But hear me this once more:  the God, the Jesus, in whom I believe, are not the God, the Jesus, in whom you fancy I believe:  you know them not; your idea of them is not mine.  If you knew them you would believe in them, for to know them is to believe in them.  Say not, “Let Him teach me, then,” except you mean it in submissive desire; for He has been teaching you all this time:  if you have been doing His teaching, you are on the way to learn more; if you hear and do not heed, where is the wonder that the things I tell you sound in your ears as the muttering of a dotard?  They convey to you nothing, it may be:  but that which makes of them words—­words—­words, lies in you, not in me.  Yours is the killing power.  They would bring you life, but the death in him that knoweth and doeth not is strong; in your air they drop and die, winged things no more.

For days Faber took measures not to be seen by Juliet.  But he was constantly about the place, and when she woke from a sleep, they had often to tell her that he had been by her side all the time she slept.  At night he was either in her room or in the next chamber.  Dorothy used to say to her that if she wanted her husband, she had only to go to sleep.  She was greatly tempted to pretend, but would not.

At length Faber requested Dorothy to tell Juliet that the doctor said she might send for her husband when she pleased.  Much as he longed to hear her voice, he would not come without her permission.

He was by her side the next moment.  But for minutes not a word was spoken; a speechless embrace was all.

It does not concern me to relate how by degrees they came to a close understanding.  Where love is, everything is easy, or, if not easy, yet to be accomplished.  Of course Faber made his return confession in full.  I will not say that Juliet had not her respondent pangs of retrospective jealousy.  Love, although an angel, has much to learn yet, and the demon Jealousy may be one of the school masters of her coming perfection:  God only knows.  There must be a divine way of casting out the demon; else how would it be here-after?