"'Oh! I am not worthy,' she said, sinking beside me and burying her head in my lap. "And then I felt, dears, that I was not worthy. "But as I bent over her bowed head, I remembered He had come to seek and to save that which was lost—me, as well as her; blessed Jesus." [Illustration] CHAPTER XIX. ADA'S STORY. DR. ARUNDEL used to go in each morning and evening to see Ada, but the visits were not very satisfactory to either of them. She was afraid of adding to his grief by showing her own, and generally answered his questions as briefly as possible, keeping a composed face, which was truly much more painful to him than tears would have been. On his part, he felt obliged to keep up the same self-control. Such grief as his could only be borne by putting it in the background, and living a life apart from it. One evening, however, before Ada had yet ventured from her room, her father tapped at the door and entered. She was still in bed, but looking better. Just now her eyes were red with weeping, and Dr. Arundel sat down by her side, and took her hand in silence. Ada tried to rouse herself; and quietly wiped away her tears. Her father bent down and kissed her, saying kindly, "Is anything special troubling you, my dear?" "It is, papa, that she can never know—" "I think she will, dear; and I have been thinking, too, of the best way of being sure she will know." "How?" asked Ada, checking her sobs. "By helping to bring all whom she loved to be stars in her Saviour's crown." "Oh, papa, I feel as if I should never do anything again! Life is worth nothing without her." Dr. Arundel paused; he seemed unable to answer, and a heavy, heavy sigh escaped him; but after a minute he said: "Ada, I am afraid that is a very rebellious thought. Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?" "Oh, I can't, papa," said Ada bitterly. "You cannot make yourself, my dear; but He can make you. Ada, submit. Oh, my child, it must come sooner or later! You are His, and He sends it in love. It is so, though we cannot see it now; but I can, and do trust Him that it is so." Ada lay silently looking in the face which seemed almost grey with sorrow. She pressed his hand earnestly, with filling eyes. "Think of it, my dear, and ask Him to enable you to do His will, not only by submitting, but by acquiescing." "Papa!" "I mean it, dear. Being willing to carry out His perfect will." Ada felt, as he wished her good-night, that this would never, never, be possible. But before she fell asleep that night, she had taken the first and the most difficult step in the ladder of self-surrender. She had prayed to be made willing. The next morning, when Nellie came in to take away her breakfast tray, she was already half dressed. "Ada!" exclaimed her sister, astonished. "Can you, dear? Are you well enough?"