Mr. Clare was silent; he saw that the man’s heart was full to overflowing, and that, if let alone, he would pour it out in his own way. In a moment or two, the cool sarcastic tones began again as if they were arguing the case of any one else in the world but the speaker. “I suppose you don’t believe in euthanasia, Clare?” “As practised upon one’s self, or on some one else?” “Either, or both.” “Then, no. In the first case, it is cowardice; in the second, murder. But I should think you could believe in it logically enough.” “Logic is a delusion, my friend. Logically, I might have spared my poor boy a lifetime of suffering: but, selfishly, I kept him alive months longer than any one else could have done!” “And you are proud and glad to have done so!” “Of course! selfishly. And now, look at me! what good shall I ever be in the world again? Why could I not drop a little hydrocyanic acid on my tongue, and join the majority?” “Fred,” said Alice,—she had been working beside him all the while, but had not joined in the conversation; and now her voice was very tremulous;—“Fred, do you remember your own words to me, when I, believing as you do, declared that I would never outlive, for long, you and our dear boy? Do you remember?” “Indeed, I don’t, my dear. Some nonsense, I suppose.” “You told me to live for others, Fred, and in so doing I should find the secret of life.” “Ah! I hadn’t the rheumatism then,” said the doctor dryly, “nor had I lost my only son,” he added, with a tremor in his voice of which he seemed to feel ashamed, for he went on quickly, “Besides, you miss the point of my arguments, my dear, which is that, in my condition, it is impossible for me to live for others except as a burden upon them.” “It is impossible for any one to live for others,” said Ernest Clare quietly; “the only possible thing is to live for One other, Who is Jesus Christ.” “Ah! my wife can follow you there; I cannot,” said the doctor. “It would be a different world if one like Jesus Christ had made and governed it.” “The mystery of pain, sorrow, and sin,” said Mr. Clare, “I do not wonder that it baffles you; yet one who is a father ought to recognize the chastisements of _his_ Father, I think.” “Come, now, Clare, would any father inflict such pain as I”—his voice broke irretrievably. “If it were to bring you to the joy of knowing Him? to purify you and fit you for endless happiness with Him? I think a Father _would_,” said Mr. Clare. “The mystery of pain, the secret of life!” said the doctor thoughtfully, having by this time regained his composure. “Well, Alice, if you have solved the one and found the other, I can only congratulate you. It was the task we set ourselves to work out together; do _you_ remember?” “And He sent pain and grief to help us,” said Alice. A great light came upon Ernest Clare’s face; he sat quite still for a moment, then rose and knelt beside the doctor’s chair.