man’s blinding and paralysing theories, from the dead wooden shapes substituted for the living forms of human love and hope and aspiration, from the interpretations which render scripture as dry as a speech in Chancery —­ surely the one refuge from all these awful evils is the Son of man; for no misrepresentation and no misconception can destroy the beauty of that face which the marring of sorrow has elevated into the region of reality, beyond the marring of irreverent speculation and scholastic definition.

From the God of man’s painting, we turn to the man of God’s being, and he leads us to the true God, the radiation of whose glory we first see in him.  Happy is that man who has a glimpse of this, even in a dream such as Harry’s! —­ a dream in other respects childish and incongruous, but not more absurd than the instruction whence it sprung.

But the troubles returned with the day.  Prayers revived them.  He sought Euphra in her room.

“They say I must repent and be sorry for my sins,” said he.  “I have been trying very hard; but I can’t think of any, except once that I gave Gog” (his Welsh pony) “such a beating because he would go where I didn’t want him.  But he’s forgotten it long ago; and I gave him two feeds of corn after it, and so somehow I can’t feel very sorry now.  What shall I do? —­ But that’s not what I mind most.  It always seems to me it would be so much grander of God to say:  ’Come along, never mind.  I’ll make you good.  I can’t wait till you are good; I love you so much.’”

His own words were too much for Harry, and he burst into tears at the thought of God being so kind.  Euphra, instead of trying to comfort him, cried too.  Thus they continued for some time, Harry with his head on her knees, and she kindly fondling it with her distressed hands.  Harry was the first to recover; for his was the April time, when rain clears the heavens.  All at once he sprung to his feet, and exclaimed: 

“Only think, Euphra!  What if, after all, I should find out that God is as kind as you are!”

How Euphra’s heart smote her!

“Dear Harry,” answered she, “God must be a great deal kinder than I am.  I have not been kind to you at all.”

“Don’t say that, Euphra.  I shall be quite content if God is as kind as you.”

“Oh, Harry!  I hope God is like what I dreamed about my mother last night.”

“Tell me what you dreamed about her, dear Euphra.”

“I dreamed that I was a little child —­ "

“Were you a little girl when your mother died?”

“Oh, yes; such a tiny!  But I can just remember her.”

“Tell me your dream, then.”

“I dreamed that I was a little girl, out all alone on a wild mountain-moor, tripping and stumbling on my night-gown.  And the wind was so cold!  And, somehow or other, the wind was an enemy to me, and it followed and caught me, and whirled and tossed me about, and then ran away again.  Then I hastened on, and the thorns went into my feet, and the stones cut them.  And I heard the blood from them trickling down the hill-side as I walked.”