I read the Bible, which I believe to be God’s word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child’s faith was succeeded by rational sight.  Afterwards, as I floated off into the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with baffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and threatening, my mind gave way to doubts.  But, always after the storm passed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost.  I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious—­thrown them over, weeping.  But, after awhile, things more precious took their place—­goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my loss, would not have been ventured.

“Always am I seeing the hand of Providence—­always proving the divine announcement, ‘The very hairs of your head are numbered.’  Is there not ground for faith here?  If the word of God stand in agreement with reason and experience, shall I not have faith?  If my convictions are clear, to disbelieve is impossible.”

“We started differently,” replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully.  “That sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine.”

“The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and experience,” said Mr. Wilkins.

“With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in the future.  All before me is dark.”

“Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your experiences correctly.  If you were to do this, light would fall upon your way.  You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in anything.  You spoke without due reflection.”

“No; I meant just what I said.  Is there stability in anything?  In what can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing.  My house may be in ruins—­burnt to the ground, at daylight.  The friend to whom I loaned my money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my need.  The bank in which I hold stock may break—­the ship in which I have an adventure, go down at sea.  But why enumerate?  I am sure of nothing.”

“Not even of the love of your child?”

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw.  He had one daughter twelve years old.

“Dear Alice!” he murmured, in a softer voice.  “Yes, I am sure of that.  There is no room for doubt.  She loves me.”

“One thing in which to have faith,” said Mr. Wilkins.  “Not in a house which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which may fail; nor in a friend’s promise; nor in a ship at sea—­but in love!  Are you afraid to have that love tried?  If you were sick or in misfortune, would it grow dim, or perish?  Nay, would it not be intensified?

“I think, Mr. Fanshaw,” continued his friend, “that you have not tested your faith by higher and better things—­by things real and substantial.”