had she realised the value and beauty of that immortal
flower. He, David Helmsley, had been apparently led by devious ways, not
only to find an unselfish love for himself, but also to be the
instrument of atoning to Angus Reay for his first love-disappointment,
and uniting him to a woman whose exquisitely tender and faithful nature
was bound to make the joy and sanctity of his life. In this, had not
all things been ordered well? Did it not seem that, notwithstanding his,
Helmsley's, self-admitted worthlessness, the Divine Power had used him
for the happiness of others, to serve as a link of love between two
deserving souls? He began to think that it was not by chance that he had
been led to wander away from the centre of his business interests, and
lose himself on the hills above Weircombe. Not accident, but a high
design had been hidden in this incident--a design in which Self had been
transformed to Selflessness, and loneliness to love. "I should like to
believe in God--if I could!" This he had said to his friend Vesey, on
the last night he had seen him. And now--did he believe? Yes!--for he
had benefited by his first experience of what a truly God-like love may
be--the love of a perfectly unselfish, tender, devout woman who, for no
motive at all, but simply out of pure goodness and compassion for sorrow
and suffering, had rescued one whom she judged to be in need of help. If
therefore God could make one poor woman so divinely forbearing and
gentle, it was certain that He, from whom all Love must emanate, was yet
more merciful than the most merciful woman, as well as stronger than the
strongest man. And he believed--believed implicitly;--lifted to the
height of a perfect faith by the help of a perfect love. In the mirror
of one sweet and simple human character he had seen the face of God--and
he was of the same mind as the mighty musician who, when he was dying,
cried out in rapture--"I believe I am only at the Beginning!"[2] He was
conscious of a strange dual personality,--some spirit within him
urgently expressed itself as being young, clamorous, inquisitive, eager,
and impatient of restraint, while his natural bodily self was so weary
and feeble that he felt as if he could scarcely move a hand. He listened
for a little while to the ticking of the clock in the kitchen which was
next to his room,--and by and by, being thoroughly drowsy, he sank into
a heavy slumber. He did not know that Mary, anxious about him, had not