"Much better. You are very kind to me--very, I have always something new to thank you for." "I wish it were indeed in my power to render you any service." "Ah, you are young, and it is great happiness for the young to feel that they can be of service to those around them! But I have no claim upon your kindness. I am a stranger to you and all about you." "A stranger--oh, lady, how can you say this? I could never feel that you were indeed a stranger--there are persons with whom one, at the first sight, seems to have been acquainted for years--for a whole life-time." "Have you felt that, too?" said Barbara, mournfully. "Poor boy! that feeling comes with a rare and peculiar organization, which causes the possessor much suffering." "And am I to know much suffering, do you think?" the youth questioned eagerly, with a half-defiant look, as if ready to dare the worst that fate could heap upon him. "Shall I suffer, do you think?" "Is it not the fate of humanity? Endurance is the great lesson of life! But it is very hard to learn how to suffer with patience--the pain is not so much as the struggle for resignation. Oh, that is hard to bear!" Barbara's head drooped forward again, and a mist stole over her eyes, till they shone like the reflection of star-beams through dark waters. "Endurance--I don't like the word! I should never learn to be patient, never!" exclaimed Lovel, with his quick impetuosity. "I could bear any suffering that came to me, but I would not be resigned. I would battle with adversity as if it were an enemy who had assailed me unawares." "Poor boy--poor fleeting spring of life!" murmured Barbara. "No, no--you think this now, while the elasticity of your spirits is unimpaired, but that will not outlast a great sorrow, one which crushes out all hope! You must learn to accept life as it is--press the crown of thorns courageously down upon your heart, and pray to God for comfort and strength--in His good time and method they would come to you." "I could not pray if I were wretched," returned Lovel; "I should not believe that God heard while it pleased Him to chastise me." "That is not the language of this Puritan land," said Barbara, with sorrowful severity; "the teachings of your boyhood should have prevented the birth of such thoughts. Whence come they?" "I do not know--they torment me much. Often in church they haunt me, drowning the voice of prayer and thanksgiving." "Pray to God!" said Barbara; "He alone can aid you." "But he seems so far off--I cannot feel that I am heard! The religion that our ministers teach is so hard and stern--so unforgiving and unpitying. Surely, if God be a just and perfect being, He cannot so harshly regard our errors!" "Ah, child, He judges not as man does--He sees the motive, and oftentimes pardons that which poor, weak mortals, in their short-sightedness, condemn with relentless severity."