'_Suppose_ the sheep starve!' '_Suppose_ the cattle die!' The prophet invites them all to come in. They jostle each other as they throng his little room. He hears all that they have to say, and then he answers them. 'Whence came all these things?' he demands. 'Whence came the figs and the vines and the olives, the corn and the flocks and the herds?' And, having asked this question, he himself proceeds to answer it. '_HE_ gave them!' he cries triumphantly, '_HE_ gave them! And if they perish, as you _suppose_, _He_ can as easily replace them! _Therefore will I rejoice_ _in the Lord and will joy in the God of my salvation!_ It is a small thing to lose the _gifts_ as long as you possess the _Giver_; the supreme tragedy lies in losing the _Giver_ and retaining only the _gifts_!' There is no record as to what the preacher said that Sunday morning at Twickenham; but some such thoughts as these must have been suggested to the eager minds of the Pethericks as they listened so attentively. 'The words took hold upon me mightily!' the father confessed, in a letter to a friend, long afterwards. IV That evening a horror of great darkness fell upon the soul of Walter Petherick. He spent the sunset hours quietly with the young people, and, before they bade each other good-night, he read with them again the passage that had so impressed them in the morning. Then, left to himself, Mr. Petherick put on his hat and took a stroll in the lane. It was a perfect summer's evening, warm and star-lit; yet its peace failed to penetrate his tortured soul. A glow-worm twinkled in the grass under the hedge, but no ray of light pierced the impenetrable gloom within. He returned to his room, and, after sitting for a while at the open window, looking down on the sluggish waters of the tranquil river, he threw himself on his knees beside his bed. One by one he prayed for each of his children. The red cross that he had seen on so many doors seemed to have stamped itself upon the retina of his eye; it blazed before him even whilst the lids were closed in prayer. 'Lord, have mercy on us!' said the legend under the cross. 'Lord, have mercy on us!' cried Mr. Petherick over and over and over again. He thought of the morning's text, but it only mocked him, as the sunshine mocked him on his way to church. 'I could not say it,' he moaned. 'If my children were snatched from me--my fine boys and my lovely girls--the treasures that _she_ left me--how could I _rejoice in the Lord and joy in the God of my salvation_?' He broke into a fresh outburst of supplication. Again he mentioned each of his children by name. 'Spare him; oh, spare him!' he cried; and, as he thought of the girls, 'Spare her, O Lord; have pity, I beseech Thee!' He wiped his face; it was damp with perspiration. He allowed his forehead to rest upon his folded arms; and then, bowed there in the solitude of his room and in the stillness of the summer night, a strange thought took possession of him. V