"Dear child," she said, "you may ask God for anything in all the world, if only you will bear in mind that He loves you, and is wiser than you. `Father, if it be possible,--nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, be done.' You cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which lay between those words. If the world were to be saved, if God were to be glorified, it was not possible. Did He not know that who asked it with strong crying and tears? Was not the asking done to teach us two things--that He was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain and death as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we may ask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that God's will be done?" "Thank you," I said, drawing a long breath. Yes, I might ask my second question. "Lady Monksburn, what is it to trust the Lord Jesus?" "Do you want to know what trust is, Cary,--or what He is? My child, I think I can tell you the first, but I can never attempt to paint the glory of the second." "_I_ want to know what people mean by _trusting_ Him. How are you to trust somebody whom you do not know?" "It is hard. I think you must know a little before you can trust. And by the process of trusting you learn to know. Trust and love are very near akin. You must talk with Him, Cary, if you want to know Him." "You mean, pray, I suppose?" "That is talking to Him. It is a poor converse where all the talk is on one side." "But what is the other side--reading the Bible?" "That is part of it." "What is the other part of it?" Lady Monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which I do not know how to describe. I can only say that it filled me with a sudden yearning for my dead mother. She might have smiled on me like that. "My darling!" she answered, "there are things which can be described, and there are things which can but be felt. No man can utter the secret of the Lord--only the Lord Himself. Ask Him to whisper it to you. You will care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when He has done so." Is not that just what I want? "But will He tell it to any one?" I said. "He tells it to those who long for it," she replied. "His smile may be had by any who will have it. It costs a great deal, sometimes. But it is worth the cost." "What does it cost, Madam?" "It costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worth nothing at all. It costs the world's flatteries, which are as a net for the feet; and the world's pleasures, which are as the crackling of thorns under the pot; and the world's honours, which are empty air. It often costs these. There are few men who can be trusted with both." There was a minute's silence, and then she said,--