“Which is better to believe, Margaret,” said Euphra, uncovering her face, which two tears were lingering down, and looking up at her—“that he never loved me, or that he stopped loving me?” “For his sake, the first.” “And for my sake, the second?” “That depends.” “So it does. He must have found plenty of faults in me. But I was not so bad as he thought me when he stopped loving me.” Margaret’s answer was one of her loving smiles, in which her eyes had more share than her lips. It would have been unendurable to Euphra, a little while before, to find that she had a rival in a servant. Now she scarcely regarded that aspect of her position. But she looked doubtfully at Margaret, and then said: “How is it that you take it so quietly?—for your love must have been very different from mine. Indeed, I am not sure that I loved him at all; and after I had made up my mind to it quite, it did not hurt me so very much. But you must have loved him dreadfully.” “Perhaps I did. But I had no anxiety about it.” “But that you could not leave to a father such as yours even to settle.” “No. But I could to God. I could trust God with what I could not speak to my father about. He is my father’s father, you know; and so, more to him and me than we could be to each other. The more we love God, the more we love each other; for we find he makes the very love which sometimes we foolishly fear to do injustice to, by loving him most. I love my father ten times more because he loves God, and because God has secrets with him.” “I wish God were a father to me as he is to you, Margaret.” “But he is your father, whether you wish it or not. He cannot be more your father than he is. You may be more his child than you are, but not more than he meant you to be, nor more than he made you for. You are infinitely more his child than you have grown to yet. He made you altogether his child, but you have not given in to it yet.” “Oh! yes; I know what you mean. I feel it is true.” “The Prodigal Son was his father’s child. He knew it, and gave in to it. He did not say: ‘I wish my father loved me enough to treat me like a child again.’ He did not say that, but—I will arise and go to my father.” Euphra made no answer, but wept, Margaret said no more. Euphra was the first to resume. “Mr. Sutherland was very kind, Margaret. He promised—and I know he will keep his promise—to do all he could to help me. I hope he is finding out where that wicked count is.” “Write to him, and ask him to come and see you. He does not know where you are.” “But I don’t know where he is.” “I do.”