They sat in the twilight in silence. He still held her hand, and she was sobbing more gently and quietly. Suddenly she asked, "Is it wrong thus to grieve over the breaking of an earthly tie?" "No, not if you will say as did your Lord in His agony, 'Oh, my Father, Thy will be done.'" "I will try," she said, softly, "but it is hard." "He is a merciful and faithful High Priest. For in that He Himself hath suffered, being tempted, He is able to succor them that are tempted." "Do you know that I think my change in feeling makes me grieve all the more deeply? Until to-day I never loved my father as I ought. It is the curse of unbelief to deaden everything good in the heart. Oh, I do feel such a great, unspeakable pity for him!" "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him." "Is that in the Bible?" she asked. "Yes." "It is very sweet. He indeed must be my refuge now, for I am alone in the world." "He has said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' I have passed through this sorrow so recently myself that I can sympathize with you as a fellow-sufferer." "True, true, you have," she answered. "Is that the reason that Christ suffered with us--that we might know He sympathized with us?" "Yes." "How unspeakably comforting is such sympathy, both human and divine! Tell me about your mother." "I fear I cannot without being unmanned. She was one of Heaven's favorites, and I owe everything to her. I can tell you one thing, though, she prayed for you continually--even with her dying lips, when my faith had broken down." This touched Christine very deeply. At last she said, "I shall see her some day." "I wish you had seen her," he continued very sadly, looking as if at a scene far away. "You cannot wish it more than I. Indeed I would have called on her, had it not been for an unfortunate accident." He looked at her with some surprise, as if not understanding her remark, but said, "She greatly wished to see you before she died." "Oh, I wish I had known it!" "Did you not know it?" he asked, in a startled manner. "No, but I felt grateful to her, for I understood that she offered to take care of me in case I had the smallpox. I wanted to visit her very much, and at last thought I would venture to do so, but just then I sprained my ankle. I sent my maid to inquire, but fear she didn't do my errand very well," added Christine, looking down. "She never came, Miss Ludolph." Then he continued, eagerly: "I fear I have done you a great wrong. A little time before my mother died, she wrote you a line saying that she was dying and would like to see you. I did not know you could not come--I thought you would not." Crimson with shame and humiliation, Christine buried her burning cheeks in her hands and murmured, "I never received it."