his daughter. When they reached the house, and she found herself alone
with her father in his study, she broke suddenly into passionate
complaint--not that he should so represent God, seeing, for what she
knew, He might indeed be such, but that, so representing God, he should
expect men to love Him. It was not often that her sea, however troubled
in its depths, rose into such visible storm. She threw herself upon the
floor with a loud cry, and lay sobbing and weeping. Her father was
terribly startled, and stood for a moment as if stunned; then a faint
slow light began to break in upon him, and he stood silent, sad, and
thoughtful. He knew that he loved God, yet in what he said concerning
Him, in the impression he gave of Him, there was that which prevented
the best daughter in the world from loving her Father in Heaven! He
began to see that he had never really thought about these things; he had
been taught them but had never turned them over in the light, never
perceived the fact, that, however much truth might be there, there also
was what at least looked like a fearful lie against God. For a moment he
gazed with keen compassion on his daughter as she lay, actually writhing
in her agony, then kneeled beside her, and laying his hand upon her,
said gently:

"Well, my dear, if those things are not true, my saying them will not
make them so."

She sprung to her feet, threw her arms about his neck, kissed him, and
left the room. The minister remained upon his knees.




CHAPTER XXIX.