“And this is the bitterness of the blow to me,” he continued, still speaking half to me, half to himself.  “I thought I believed in immortality.  I thought I believed in God.  These two beliefs at least were left me.  And now nothing is left.  My wife says ’he is not dead but sleepeth.’  But I cannot see it.  To me he is gone, for ever gone.  If on the other side of that veil which hides him from me, that mystic something which we call his spirit still lingers, I do not see it.  I had a dream of that better land once and called it faith.  But this cruel blow has wakened me, and the dream has passed in the very hour when I need it most.  And nothing is left me; not even that poor vision.”

“Not even God?” said I softly.

“Not even God,” he answered with terrible deliberation.  “For a bad God is worse than no God at all.  And how can I believe that God is good?  He looks down on our happy home.  He looks on our dear boy, its life and joy.  He knows how our life is wrapped up in him.  He sees how little by little Willie is leading me up into a higher, happier, holier life.  And then He strikes him down, and leaves my wife heart-broken, and me in darkness, bereft by one blow of my child and of my faith.”

Then he pointed to the dead boy who lay on the lounge before us.  “How can I reconcile this with the love of God?” he cried.  “How can you, Mr. Laicus?”

All bitterness was gone now.  He looked me earnestly in the eye, and asked eagerly, as one who longed for a solution, and yet was in despair of finding it.

“I cannot,” I answered, “and dare not try.  If I had only life’s book to read, Mr. Gear, I should not believe in a God of love.  I should turn Persian, and believe in two gods, one of love and good-will, one of hate and malice.”

He looked at me in questioning surprise.

“Love, Mr. Gear, is its own demonstration.  I know that God loves me.”

“How?” said he.

“How?” said I.  “Do you remember when we first met, Mr. Gear, that you told me your God was everywhere, in every brook, and mountain, and flower, and leaf, and storm, and ray of sunshine.”

He nodded his head reflectively, as one recalling a half forgotten conversation.

“My God is in the hearts of those that seek Him,” said I.  “And in my heart I carry an assurance of His love that life cannot disturb.  I know His love as the babe knows its mother’s love, lying upon her breast.  It knows her love though it neither understands her nature nor her ways.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Mr. Laicus,” said he, “I believe you, but I do not comprehend you.  I believe that you have a faith that is worth the having.  I would give all I possess or ever possessed to share it with you in this hour.  I do not know-I sometimes think it is only a pleasant dream.  Would God I could sleep and dream such dreams.”

“It is no dream, Mr. Gear, but truth and soberness,” said I.  “A dream does not last through eighteen centuries, and raise half a world from barbarism to civilization.  A dream does not carry mothers through such sorrows as this with outlooking anticipations so clear as those which give Mrs. Gear her radiant hope.  No!  Mr. Gear.  It is you who have been dreaming, and life’s sorrow has awakened you.”