blind and since he couldn't sin before he was born, I suppose it must
have been his parents," I answered slowly. "What difference does it
make to you?" For I was curious to know.

"And don't you think," she went on unheedingly, "that it was cruel for
anybody to hold that poor man responsible for his parents' sin?"

"I suppose so, but why are you catechizing me like this, burrowing among
old questions of two thousand years ago?"

"Oh, father, there are no old questions," and there was a strange cry in
her voice, "because there are no old lives. They are all new every
day--they all live again, father. Sin is new and sorrow is new--and the
Cross is new, father--so new and so cruel," she cried, the tears now
flowing fast, "and that question isn't old--it is asked every day. And
it is asked of me--and I have to answer it, and answer it as you have
done, and as the compassionate Saviour would have done," she concluded,
her voice trembling with its passion.

"What on earth do you mean, Margaret? Sin, sorrow, the Cross, what have
these to do with you?" I asked eagerly.

"It was only last night that Angus told me. Poor fellow, his face was
white when he came and his look was full of agony. Of course I asked him
to tell me what was the matter. We were in the library, for I always
took him there because it has a fireplace, and we both love to watch
the fire. I had laid the wood myself last night before Angus came, and
there was never task so dear--it was the gloaming when I laid it, but I
knew it would soon be bright.

"But about his answer to my question. Surely no maiden yet had so
strange an answer. For, without a word, he went to the desk and took the
Bible in his hands. When he had found the place he stood before me and
read me this:

"'Then cometh Jesus with them unto the place called Gethsemane.... My
soul is exceeding sorrowful unto death.... My Father if this cup may not
pass away from Me except I drink it, Thy will be done.'

"His voice was strange to me, and I was trembling for I didn't know what
he meant. But I knew it was my Judgment Day.

"'Angus,' I said faintly, 'what do you mean? What has that to do with
us? That is a story of two thousand years ago.'

"'Margaret,' he answered, 'the story of Gethsemane is never old. Its
willows cast the same shadows yet as those into which our Saviour crept.
And that cup is never empty, though human lips are ever draining it to
its dregs. It is close to my lips to-nigh