ts
done, which He needs us to do for Him, which perhaps only we can do for
Him. At first we don't understand that, and we are so ignorant and
foolish that we resist the pressure of His Hand. Then we suffer."

Fay shivered.

"That resistance is what some people call sin. It is unendurable, the
only real anguish in the world. You see we are not meant to bear it. And
it is no manner of use to resist Him, for God is stronger than we are,
and He loves us too much ever to lose heart with us, ever to blame us,
ever to leave us to ourselves. He sees we don't understand that He can't
do without us, and that we can't do without Him. And at last, when we
feel God's need of us, then it becomes possible"--the Bishop paused--"to
say the difficult word, to do the difficult deed."

Did she understand? Who shall say! Sometimes it seems as if no actual
word reaches us that Love would fain say to our unrest and misery. But
our troubled hearts are nevertheless conscious by some other channel,
some medium more subtle than thought and speech, that Love and Peace
have drawn very near to us. It is only reflected dimly through dear
human faces that some of us can catch a glimpse of "the light that
lighteth every man that cometh into the world."

The small tortured face relaxed between the two calm ones. The sunny
room was quite still. Fear shrank to a shadow.

Suddenly the fire drew itself together with a little encouraging sound.

Fay started slightly, looked at it, and began to speak rapidly in a low
clear voice.

As Magdalen listened she prayed with intensity that Fay might really
tell the Bishop the whole story, as she had told it to herself, that
stormy night in March, half a life-time ago.

The little voice went on and on. It faltered, sank, and then struggled
up again. One point after another was reached in safety, was passed.
Nothing that Fay had already admitted was left out. Gradually, as
Magdalen listened, a faint shame laid hold of her. Her whole life had
for the time centred in one passionate overwhelming desire that Fay
should make to the Bishop as full a confession as she had made to
herself. Now she realised that Fay was saying even more than she had
done on that occasion, was excusing herself less, was blaming others
less.

Fay herself saw no discrepancy between her first and second account of
the tragedy. But then she never did see discrepancies. Her mind had
shifted a little towards the subject, that was all. This