“One of the sublimest and truest things that ever fell from a pen is this, ‘Love is of God; and every one that love is born of God, and knoweth God.’ It’s almost a startling thing to realize that by the sheer act of love we’re sons of God and know Him.” “Ah, but what kind of love?” I asked, with some incredulity. “Are there more kinds than one? The kingdom of love is like that of minerals or that of vegetation—one in essence, though multiform in manifestation. Just as one will give us coal and diamonds with much the same ingredients, and another the strawberry, the rose, and the apple-tree, all closely akin, so love shows itself in a million ways, and yet remains always love.” “And would you say that the love of parents and children, the love of husbands and wives, the love of sweethearts, and the love of God—” “—are all fundamentally related? Yes, I would. I can’t understand love in any other sense, if it’s to be real love. Do you remember how often we’ve talked of the spirit there is in the world that throws dust into our eyes by creating distinctions and confusions where neither confusion nor distinction exists? Well, the same evil imp is forever at work to stultify love by trying to take the meaning from the word. And when it has stultified love it has stultified God, since the one is identical with the other.” I became argumentative. “But if all love is identical with God, how do you account for what would commonly be called a wrong love?” “There’s no such thing as a wrong love. Men are wrong and women are wrong, and they treat love wrongly; but love itself is always right. There a distinction must be made between love and passion; but it’s easy enough to make it. One of these days we’ll take the time to talk that over. At present my point is simply this—that there’s only one love as there’s only one God, and it’s only by understanding the unity of both that we get the significance of either. Moreover, the same pen that wrote, ‘Every one that loveth is born of God,’ wrote, ‘He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God.’ You see then how magical a thing love is, and why any kind of love—remember I’m speaking of love, not of physical passion, which is another thing—but you can see how any kind of love should work wonders.” He asked, suddenly, “Have you written to your mother since your father died?” I said I had not, that I hadn’t supposed a letter from me would be welcome. “Don’t ask whether it would be welcome or not. Do your duty—and let other people take care of theirs. Let your mother see that, so far from feeling sore over the provision in your father’s will, you take it in the way I’ve tried to indicate. It will be an amazing comfort to her; and if you want to give your brothers and sisters the surprise of their young lives you’ll be doing it.” He took my hand and pressed it. “Good-by now, old chap. I’ve got to go and see Momma about the meals for to-morrow.”