“Yes; I think it sends out shafts of brilliancy to pierce to that dull, empty place, and prick it into fearful pain. What can I do? I’ve prayed to God—what more can I do?” “There is one thing more. You’d better give it up.” “Oh! but that is everything—the whole of the little garden. For the frost will never break till the stone is free, and I.” “You can give the garden back to God who gave it.” “But why give me a thing and take it back just when it’s fit for using?” and then a great pain and fear came into her eyes. “I would do as you tell me, I would really, but I haven’t the strength, and I’m afraid. The frost is too strong for me. It freezes my heart, and leaves my mind quite free, so that the blood courses through my brain in quickest time, and then stops suddenly. It’s worse than killing me. I’m going mad, and what use am I to God, or how can I see the light of heaven, if once that heavy cloud descends, and coupled with the frost, freezes upon my eyes and lips, and eats out everything?” “To trust in God is to be sane—have peace,” he answered. “Ah, peace!” she answered greedily. “What does it mean? I know no peace—nothing but the mocking, cruel voice that says ‘Go on!’ and shows no way.” “It’s the stone, Rosalie, that stands in your light, and blocks the way. Can’t you see it?” “I expect I’m very blind. I’m not clever enough to understand. I haven’t spirit enough to find a way out. Mr. Barringcourt told me so, and he knew best. I was handicapped from the beginning to be born without a tongue.” “But that difficulty, and still another, has been surmounted.” “Yes, but I did nothing myself.” “Fiddlesticks!” said the Governor, and he spoke so naturally that Rosalie laughed, even though not particularly brightly. “Well, I didn’t do much myself. I don’t see how I could.” “You did as much as was necessary, which is never in any case very much; and now there is one little thing more to be done—give it up.” “I dare not,” she said; “it would send me mad. If it would kill me I wouldn’t mind.” And she looked down to hide the light in her eyes. “Give it up to God. Do you trust God and think He will forsake you?” “No; it’s myself I am not sure of.” “You should be part of God.” “Not here.” “Where else, then?” “In heaven.” “It begins on earth for those of sufficient intelligence; and for the others, they do not count.” “I’m one of the last, then. It is so hard, so very, very hard, and I have no strength at all.” Then a very long silence followed—the terrible fight between weakness and trust, between blind ignorance and all-conquering wisdom, the spirit’s humble discipline; and at last she turned to him, and said: “I’ll give it up! And if I sacrifice my heart or head, it’s all the same, seeing God is the receiver, and He knows best.” And then she turned away, with the knowledge of having done some duty that now seemed extremely simple.