“But if there isn’t any God, if there’s only an awful grave? Oh, Muriel, it’s a dreadful thing to be an old man!” He shivered from head to foot, and she nestled closer to his side. “The body dies, and never feels anything; it’s just a sleep, and it will never dream, or wake, or fret and trouble any more, and we believe that the spirit is safer without it, and close to God,” she murmured. “I’m not so sure of that,” said her uncle sharply. “Some spirits can’t help it. They’re no better than they should be, and what do you think happens to them?” The blind cannot see. It is a scientific fact and a living reality; the nearest they can reach to sight is to feel that they do not see as much as they might see, and they dim that view by the cry of the eternally inadequate “I can’t help it.” Muriel pressed her lips to the poor human hand. “Dear uncle, such spirits must be made as well as they ought to be. We must trust God for the method, for we can’t know what is best; but I am quite sure God meant us all for His, and if we hold fast to that we shall grow like Him in time, and He will give us time, for there is all eternity for us to go on being good in if we have made the start.” “You’ll never leave me, Muriel? Promise you will never leave me!” There was a moment’s pause, while she looked into the fire and watched the red-hot coal grow black and drop to ashes in the grate. “I’ll never leave you, dear,” she said at last. “And you won’t be afraid any more?” she questioned. “I shall sleep right in the next room to you if you want me. You won’t be afraid?” “No, child! It’s been very lonely without you, and they’re very thoughtless about my chocolate. But you don’t think there’s any—hell, do you?” “Oh, no, dear; I am quite sure there’s not. Now don’t you think I’d better ring for Thomas to carry you to bed, and I’ll see that the cook does your broth nicely.” “You may if you like,” he said grudgingly; “and mind you come to bed early, and come to me the moment I call you.” “Yes, dear, I will,” and she kissed him gently. “You’re a good child,” he murmured sleepily. Just as she closed the door he called her back. “Muriel!” “Yes, uncle.” “Are you sure about what you just mentioned, you know?” “There’s nothing in all the world or out of it but God, be very sure,” she said with the passionate certainty of her faith. He was not quite certain whether he liked that very much better either. But his broth was just as he wished that evening, and he did not call her in the night for he passed away peacefully in his sleep. And there was no dark left but his own soul, and even that with the hope of light in it passed into the eternal. CHAPTER XXXII “This cold, clay clod was man’s heart: Crumble it, and what comes next?—Is it God?”