"She had a bright nature," the lagging voice went on, "a bright nature--and gifts--which I had not. God gave me no gifts, and it is natural to me to see that life is dark and that I can only do poorly the work which falls to me. I was a gloomy, unhappy boy when she was born. I had learned to know the lack in myself early, and I saw in her what I longed for. I know the feeling is a sin against God and that His judgment will fall upon me--but I have no power against it." "It is a very natural feeling," said Baird, hoarsely. "We cannot resign ourselves at once under a great sorrow." "A just God who punishes rebellion demands it of His servants." "Don't say that!" Baird interrupted, with a shudder; "we need a God of Mercy, not a God who condemns." "Need!" the dark face almost livid in its pallor, "_We_ need! It is not He who was made for our needs, but we for His. For His servants there is only submission to the anguish chosen for us." "That is a harsh creed," said Baird, "and a dark one. Try a brighter one, man!" "There is no brighter one for me," was the answer. "She had a brighter one, poor child--and mine was a heavy trouble to her. Why should we deceive ourselves? What are we in His sight--in the sight of Immutable, Eternal God? We can only do His will and await the end. We have reason which we may not use; we can only believe and suffer. There is agony on every side of us which, if it were His will, He might relieve, but does not. It is His will, and what is the impotent rebellion of Nature against that? What help have we against Him?" His harsh voice had risen until it was almost a cry, the lank locks which fell over his sallow forehead were damp with sweat. He put them back with a desperate gesture. "Such words of themselves are sin," he said, "and it is my curse and punishment that I should bear in my breast every hour the crime of such rebellion. What is there left for me? Is there any labour or any pang borne for others that will wipe out the stain from my soul?" John Baird looked at him as he had looked before. His usual ready flow of speech, his rapidity of thought, his knowledge of men and their necessities seemed all to have deserted him. "I--" he stammered, "I am not--fit--not fit----" He had not known what he was going to say when he began, and he did not know how he intended to end. He heard with a passionate sense of relief that the door behind them opened, and turned to find that Mrs. Latimer stood upon the threshold as if in hesitancy. "Lucien," she said, "it is that poor girl from Janway's Mills. The one Margery was so sorry for--Susan Chapman. She wants to see you. I think the poor child wants to ask about Margery." Latimer made a movement forward, but checked himself. "Tell her to come in," he said.