It seemed as though the dark shadow and
the keen sting had somehow been taken away by the assurance that the
child might be thought of full of enjoyment; and certainly, from that
time, the peculiar sadness of Harold's countenance diminished. It
was always grave, but the air of oppression went away.
I said something about meeting the child again, to which Harold
replied, "You will, may be."
"And you, Harold." And as he shook his head, and said something
about good people, I added, "It would break my heart to think you
would not."
That made him half smile in his strange, sad way, and say, "Thank
you, Lucy;" then add, "But it's no use thinking about it; I'm not
that sort."
"But you are, but you are, Harold!" I remember crying out with tears.
"God has made you to be nobler, and greater, and better than any of
us, if you only would--"
"Too late," he said. "After all I have been, and all I have done--"
"Too late! Harry--with a whole lifetime before you to do God real,
strong service in?"
"It won't ever cancel that--"
I tried to tell him what had cancelled all; but perhaps I did not do
it well enough, for he did not seem to enter into it. It was a
terrible disadvantage in all this that I had been so lightly taught.
I had been a fairly good girl, I believe, and my dear mother had her
sweet, quiet, devotional habits; but religion had always sat, as it
were, outside my daily life.
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