I in my sister's arms--hopeless in the drear light of that day.

"I love him," she said.

"Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he've sinned past all forgiving."

Again--and now abruptly--she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her
lap. I could not evade her glance--sweet-souled, confident, content,
reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.

"There's no sin, Davy," she solemnly said, "that a woman can't forgive."

* * * * *

I passed that afternoon alone on the hills--the fog thickening, the wind
blowing wet and cold, the whole world cast down--myself seeking, all the
while, some reasonable way of return to the doctor's dear friendship. I
did not know--but now I know--that reason, sour and implacable, is sadly
inadequate to our need when the case is sore, and, indeed, a wretched
staff, at best: but that fine impulse, the sure, inner feeling, which is
faith, is ever the more trustworthy, if good is to be achieved, for it
is forever sanguine, nor, in all the course of life, relentless. But,
happily, Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, who, in my childhood, came often
opportunely to guide me with his wiser, strangely accurate philosophy,
now sought me on the hill, being informed, as it appeared, of my
distress--and because, God be thanked! he loved me.

"Go 'way!" I complained.

"Go 'way?" cried he, indignantly. "I'll not go 'way. For shame! To send
me from you!"

"I'm wantin' t' be alone."

"Ay; but 'tis unhealthy for you."

"I'm thrivin' well enough."

"Hut!" said he. "What's this atween the doctor an' you? You'd cast un
off because he've sinned? Ecod! I've seldom heard the like. Who is you?
Even the Lard God A'mighty wouldn't do that. Sure, _He_ loves only such
as have sinned. Lad," he went on, now, with a smile, with a touch of his
rough old hand, compelling my confidence and affection, "what's past is
done with. Isn't you l'arned that yet? Old sins are as if they never had
been. Else what hope is there for us poor sons of men? The weight o' sin
would sink us. 'Tis not the dear Lard's way t' deal so with men. To-day
is not yesterday. What was, has been; it is not. A man is not what he
was--he is what he is. But yet, lad--an' 'tis wonderful queer--to-day
_is_ yesterday. 'Tis _made_ by yesterday. The mistake--the sin--o'
yesterday is the straight course--the righteous deed--o' to-day. 'Tis
only out o' sin that sweetness is born. That's just what sin is for! The
righteous, Davy, dear," he sa