re alone we can be safe. You will, when you go out into the world,
my boy, find that most men not only do not believe this, but do not
believe that you believe it. They regard it at best as a fantastic
weakness, fit only for sickly people. But watch how the strength of
such people, their calmness and common sense, fares when the grasp of
suffering lays hold upon them. It was a sad sight--that abject
hopeless misery I saw this afternoon. If his mind had been an
indication of the reality, one must have said that there was no
God--no God at least that would have anything to do with him. The
universe as reflected in the tarnished mirror of his soul, was a chill
misty void, through which blew the moaning wind of an unknown fate. As
near as ever I saw it, that man was without God and without hope in
the world. All who have done the mightiest things--I do not mean the
showiest things--all that are like William of Orange--the great
William, I mean, not our King William--or John Milton, or William
Penn, or any other of the cloud of witnesses spoken of in the Epistle
to the Hebrews--all the men I say who have done the mightiest things,
have not only believed that there was this refuge in God, but have
themselves more or less entered into the secret place of the Most
High. There only could they have found strength to do their mighty
deeds. They were able to do them because they knew God wanted them to
do them, that he was on their side, or rather they were on his side,
and therefore safe, surrounded by God on every side. My boy, do the
will of God--that is, what you know or believe to be right, and fear
nothing."

I never forgot the lesson. But my readers must not think that my
father often talked like this. He was not at all favourable to much
talk about religion. He used to say that much talk prevented much
thought, and talk without thought was bad. Therefore it was for the
most part only upon extraordinary occasions, of which this is an
example, that he spoke of the deep simplicities of that faith in God
which was the very root of his conscious life.

He was silent after this utterance, which lasted longer than I have
represented, although unbroken, I believe, by any remark of mine. Full
of inward repose, I fell asleep in his arms.

When I awoke I found myself very cold. Then I became aware that my
father was asleep, and for the first time began to be uneasy. It was
not because of the cold: that was not at all unendurable; i