"Madam, blind eyes cannot see. We are all blind by nature, and even they that are God's children, I believe, cannot sin but it dims their eyes. Even of them, perchance more 'see men as trees walking.'[25] than as having the full use of their spiritual eyes. Well, it matters little how we see men, if only we have eyes to see Christ. Yet which of us, after all, ever really hath seen Him? But anent crosses, Madam, I have a word to say, if you please. There's a wonderful manufactory of crosses ever a-working among all God's saints. Whatever else we are unskilful in, we are uncommon skilled in making of rods for our own backs. And very sharp rods they are, mostly. I had a deal sooner with David, 'fall into the hand of the Lord' than into the hands of men:[26] but above all, may the Lord deliver me from falling into mine own! There is a sharp saying, Madam, which maybe you have heard,--'He that is his own lawyer hath a fool to his client:' I am sure he that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor. Yet every man among us would be his own God if he might. What else are all our murmurings and disputings of the will of the Lord?" "But, Patient, you don't call grieving murmuring? You would not say that every cry of pain was a murmur? Surely when God uses His rod to us, He means us to feel it?" "Certainly, Madam, He means us to feel it; else there were no use laying it on us. There is a point, doubtless, where grieving doth become murmuring; and where that is the Lord knoweth better than we. He makes no mistakes. He will not account that murmuring which he that crieth doth not intend to be such. I think He looks on our griefs not as they be to Him, nor perchance to others, but as they are to us; just as a kindly nurse or mother will comfort a little bairn greeting over a bit plaything that none save itself accounted the losing of worth naming." "We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia, thoughtfully. "Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a night[27]--quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our own will--mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a breath of wind that crosses us--saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I am, and none else beside me'[28]--'Who is the Lord, that I should obey Him?'[29] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; _therefore_ ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.'"[30] Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence. "Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but always as belonging to past time." Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a little less calm than usual: