sharp
answer of conscience. And Diana saw a battle set in array.

That day, the day when she got to this point, was one of those which
even in summer one may know on the sea-shore. It was grey and cool, and
a violent easterly wind was driving the waters in from the Narrows. The
moment Diana got a sight of those battle forces opposed to each other
in her spiritual nature, she threw on bonnet and shawl and went out.
Baby was sleeping, and she left her safely in charge of a good-tempered
servant who asked no better.

She went along the shore in the face of the wind, meeting, breasting,
overcoming it, though with the exertion of determined strength and
energy. The gale was rather fierce. It was a sight to see, the rush of
that tide of waters, mighty, sweeping, rolling and tumbling in from the
great sea, restless, endless. Diana did not stop to draw comparisons,
yet I think she felt them even then; the wild accord of the unchained
forces without and the unchained forces within. Who could stay them,
the one or the other? "That is Nature," said Diana to herself; "and
this is Nature; 'the troubled sea that cannot rest.' But that is spoken
of the wicked; am I wicked because I cannot help what I _cannot_ help?
As well put out my tiny hand and sweep back that stormy flood of water
to the ocean where it comes from!--as hopefully, as practicably. What
am I, _I_--but a chip or a shingle tossed and chased along on the power
of the waves? The wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest;
that is it, it _cannot_ rest. Look at it, and think of bidding it rest!"

She had walked a long way in the teeth of the storm, and yet, unwilling
even to turn her face homewards with her mind still at war, she had
crouched down to rest under the lee of an old shed which stood near the
edge of the water. Diana drew her shawl closer round her and watched
the wild play of the waves, which grew wilder every moment; taking a
sort of gloomy comfort in the thought that they were not more
irresistible or unopposable than the tempest in her own heart. Then
came in the thought--it stole in--"There was One who could bid it be
still--and the sea heard him and was quiet. If he could do that, could
he not still this other storm? A worse storm, yes; but could not the
hand that did one thing do the other?" Diana knew on the instant that
it could; but with that came another consciousness--that she wished it
could not. She did not want the storm laid. Better t