are seen. But when pain comes, when the immense misery and evil in
the world are borne in upon us, we too often stumble, or fail utterly,
just because we do not understand our sonship; because we forget that
Christians must be sin-bearers like their Master, pain bearers like
their Master; because we will let ourselves be blinded by the mystery of
evil and the mystery of pain, instead of fixing our eyes as Christ did,
on the joy that those mysteries are sure to bring. "Lo, I come to do Thy
will." And what is the will of even a good earthly father but the best
possible for all his children?

Erica saw for the first time that no pain she had ever suffered had been
a wasted thing, nor had it merely taught her personally some needful
lesson; it had been rather her allotted service, her share of
pain-bearing, sin-bearing, Christ-following; her opportunity of doing
the "Will" not self-chosen, but given to her as one of the best of gifts
by the Father Himself.

"Oh, what a little fool I've been!" she thought to herself with the
strange pang of joy which comes when we make some discovery which
sweetens the whole of life, and which seems so self-evident that we can
but wonder and wonder at our dense stupidity in not seeing it sooner.
"I've been grudging Brian what God sees he most wants! I've been
groaning over the libels and injustices which seem to bring so much pain
and evil when, after all, they will be, in the long run, the very
things to show people the need of tolerance, and to establish freedom of
speech."

Even this pain of renunciation seemed to gain a new meaning for her
though she could not in the least fathom it; even the unspeakable
grief of feeling that her father was devoting much of his life to the
propagation of error, lost its bitterness though it retained its depth.
For with the true realization of Fatherhood and Sonship impatience
and bitterness die, and in their place rises the peace which "passeth
understanding."

"We will have a day of unmitigated pleasure," her father had said to
her, and the words had at the time been like a sharp stab. But, after
all, might not this pain, this unseen and dimly understood work for
humanity, be in very truth the truest pleasure? What artist is there
who would not gratefully receive from the Master an order to attempt
the loftiest of subjects? What poet is there whose heart would not bound
when he knew he was called to write on the noblest of themes? All the
struggle