"A good many. It was before I knew your father. Somebody else—somebody who seemed to care for me—for a time I thought he did care. And when I found my mistake—found he had deceived me—I thought my life was over. Nothing seemed left . . . And yet my life really was hardly begun: and that which I wanted would not have been happiness, but misery. Nothing short of misery. He could be winning enough when he chose, but there was no strength of principle. His wife has had a bitter story since, poor thing—and it might have been mine, if I could have had my choice . . . The real happiness came later: and I have often thanked God that He guided me away from those quicksands, and denied me my heart's wish. Though at the time it seemed almost more than I could bear. Nobody ever had a better or truer husband than I in your dear father." Perhaps Mrs. Valentine was unreasonable to expect that her past experience should serve for Prue. There was a slight pause, and then— "Some men one can be sure would not act so." "Yes: but one cannot be sure what other kind of unhappiness might be bound up in the thing one wants. God knows best." "I never doubt that . . . One doesn't question His knowing best . . . The difficulty is not to wish for the thing He denies—even if it is bad for one. Or to believe that it can be bad." "If we could see a little way on, I suppose we should be willing always, Prue. I mean if we could see beyond the border of this life. If we could know how much each single step here tells upon our future there . . . I suppose we should choose for ourselves the very things that God does choose for us now, because they would so clearly be the best . . . Perhaps that is clearer to me than to you, because I am nearer the border." "Mother—you may not be. Who knows? . . . Do you think we should choose—not to have the things we want most—even if we could see—" "If we could see the evil they would bring? Yes, surely we have sense enough for that." "But if God gives the thing we long for, cannot He keep it from being an evil? He has all power. Is there ever a 'must be' of that kind?" "In one sense—no. But He will not work needless miracles, dear. Why should He? If you drink a cup of poison, however unconsciously, you will die. God could save your life, of course, but in most cases the poison does its work." Prue smiled faintly. The "thing" which she had in her mind seemed so far removed from any poisonous tendencies. "Sometimes, not having what we want means only waiting for it—till God's time. And that time may not be in this world . . . I often love to think how wonderfully all our longings will be satisfied, and all our emptinesses will be filled, there—in the life to come." Prue made no answer in words. She bent slowly forward, and was folded in her mother's a long close tender embrace. One or two tears might have dropped unseen: but when she sat up, she was smiling. "That always does me good," she said. CHAPTER XIV. A DISCOVERY.