[The piquet players have played their game with a certain distraction, and during the last few speeches have made no more pretence of playing at all.Mrs. Littlewoodhas listened attentively. Now she puts down her cards, gets up, and walks up to theVicar.
[The piquet players have played their game with a certain distraction, and during the last few speeches have made no more pretence of playing at all.Mrs. Littlewoodhas listened attentively. Now she puts down her cards, gets up, and walks up to theVicar.
Mrs. Littlewood.
And who is going to forgive God?
Mrs. Wharton.
[With horror.] Charlotte!
Vicar.
[With grave disapproval.] Don’t you think that is rather blasphemous?
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Quietly and deliberately at first, but with ever-increasing excitement.] Ever since I was a child I’ve served God with all my might, and with all my heart, and with all my soul. I’ve tried always to lead my life in accordance with His will. I never forgot that I was as nothing in His sight. I’ve been weak and sinful, but I’ve tried to do my duty.
Mrs. Wharton.
Yes, dear, you’ve been an example to us all.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[Taking no notice.] Honestly, I’ve done everything I could that I thought was pleasing in His sight. I’ve praised Him and magnified His name. You’ve heard that my husband deserted me when I’d borne him two children, and I was left alone. I brought them up to be honest, upright and God-fearing men. When God took my eldest son I wept, but I turned to the Lord and said: “Thy will be done.” He was a soldier, and he took his chance, and he died in a good cause.
Vicar.
A great and a good cause.
Mrs. Littlewood.
But why did God take my second? He was the only one I had left, the only comfort of my old age, my only joy, the only thing I had to prevent me from seeing that my life had been wasted and it would have been better if I had never been born. I haven’t deserved that. When a horse has served me long and faithfully till he’s too old to work I have the right to send him to the knacker’s yard, but I don’t, I put him out to grass. I wouldn’t treat a dog as my Father has treated me. I’ve been cheated. You say that God will forgive us our sins, but who is going to forgive God? Not I. Never. Never!
[In a height of frenzy she rushes out into the garden. There is silence in the room.
[In a height of frenzy she rushes out into the garden. There is silence in the room.
Mrs. Wharton.
Don’t be angry with her, Vicar. She’s beside herself with grief.
Vicar.
She’ll come back. She’s like a petulant child that has been thwarted for its good. It cries and stamps, but in a little while it throws itself into its mother’s arms, and begs, all tears, for forgiveness.
Mrs. Poole.
[With a little sigh of relief.] I knew you’d take it like that, Norman. You’re so tolerant and broad-minded.
Vicar.
I think I see my way to help her, poor soul.
John.
I wonder how. Your only explanation of evil is sin. I daresay you can get people to acknowledge that they’ve deserved their own suffering. But you’ll never prevent them from being revolted at the suffering of others. Why is evil permitted in the world by an all-good God?
Vicar.
I can hardly hope that any answer of mine will satisfy you. By God’s grace I am a Christian. You are an atheist.
[There is a moment’s embarrassment.Johnrealises that his mother orSylviahas repeated what he has said.
[There is a moment’s embarrassment.Johnrealises that his mother orSylviahas repeated what he has said.
John.
That suggests a very dogmatic attitude. I don’t see how anyone can positively assert that there is no God. It would be as reasonable as to assert that there’s nothing on the other side of a wall that you can’t look over.
Vicar.
Do you believe in God?
John.
I don’t think it’s quite your business to ask me. [With a smile.] Wasn’t it St. Paul who said: “Be not zealous overmuch.”
Vicar.
You can’t be unaware that by certain statements of yours the other day you gave the greatest pain to those nearest and dearest to you.
Sylvia.
What you said made me very unhappy, John. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the Vicar and asked his advice.
John.
Don’t you think that a man’s belief is his own affair? I don’t want to interfere with other people’s. Why can’t they leave me quietly to mine?
Sylvia.
It can’t be entirely your affair, John. You and I propose to be married to-morrow. It’s only reasonable that I should know exactly how you stand in a matter that concerns me so closely.
John.
I hadn’t thought of that. I daresay there’s something in what you say. I’m willing to do my best to explain to you and to father and mother. But I really think we needn’t drag strangers in.
Mrs. Wharton.
I think it would be much better if you would talk with the Vicar, John. We don’t pretend to be very clever, and it wouldn’t mean much if you asked us questions that we couldn’t answer.
Vicar.
When you’re ill you send for a doctor, he prescribes for you, and you get well.
John.
[With a smile.] What do you think of that, doctor?
Dr. Macfarlane.
It is an idea that we do our little best to spread about the world.
Vicar.
Anyhow, you take a doctor’s advice and you don’t argue with him. Why? Because he’s an expert, and you presume that he knows his business. Why should the science of the immortal soul be a less complicated affair than the science of the perishable body?
Mrs. Wharton.
Look upon us as very silly, old-fashioned people, and be kind to us. If various doubts are troubling you, put them frankly before the Vicar. Perhaps he can help you.
Vicar.
[Sincerely.] Believe me, I’ll do everything in my power.
Mrs. Wharton.
And if he can convince you that you were wrong, I know you too well to dream that pride would stop you from confessing it. It would give us such heartfelt joy, my dear, if you could believe again as you did when you were a little child and used to say your prayers kneeling on my lap.
Vicar.
I really think I can help you. Won’t you forget that I’m a stranger and let me try?
Dr. Macfarlane.
Perhaps you’d like me to leave you. I was only waiting till the Colonel had finished his game so that I might take him upstairs and have a look at him. But I can come back later.
John.
I don’t mind your staying at all. [To the Vicar.] What is it you wish to ask me?
Vicar.
Do you believe in the God in whose name you were baptised into the Church?
John.
No!
Vicar.
That at all events is frank and honest. But aren’t you a little out of date? One of the most gratifying occurrences of recent years has been the revival of belief among thoughtful men.
John.
I should have thought it was a revival of rhetoric rather than of religion. I’m not enormously impressed by the cultured journalist who uses God to balance a sentence or adorn a phrase.
Vicar.
But it hasn’t only been among educated men. Not the least remarkable thing about the war has been the return of our brave lads at the Front to the faith which so many of us thought they had forgotten. What is your explanation of that?
John.
Fear with the most part. Perplexity with the rest.
Vicar.
Don’t you think it very rash to reject a belief that all the ablest men in the world have held since the dawn of history?
John.
When you’re dealing with a belief, neither the number nor the ability of those who hold it makes it a certainty. Only proof can do that.
Mrs. Poole.
Are you quite sure that at the bottom of your heart it’s not conceit that makes you think differently from the rest of us?
Vicar.
No, my dear, let us not ascribe unworthy motives to our antagonist.
John.
[Smiling.] At all events, not yet.
Vicar.
What makes you think that the existence of God can’t be proved?
John.
I suppose at this time of day people wouldn’t still be proving it if proof were possible.
Vicar.
My dear fellow, the fact that there is no people on the face of the earth, however barbarous and degraded, without some belief in God, is the most conclusive proof you can want.
John.
What of? It’s conclusive proof that the desire for His existence is universal. It’s not proof that the desire is fulfilled.
Vicar.
I see you have the usual Rationalistic arguments at your fingers’ ends. Believe me, they’re old friends, and if I’ve answered them once I’ve answered them a thousand times.
John.
And have you ever convinced anyone who wasn’t convinced before?
Vicar.
I can’t make the blind to see, you know.
John.
I wonder that hasn’t suggested to you a very obvious conclusion.
Vicar.
What?
John.
Why, that arguments are futile. Think for a minute. You don’t believe in God for any of the reasons that are given for His existence. You believe in Him because with all your heart youfeelthat He exists. No argument can ever touch that feeling. The heart is independent of logic and its rules.
Vicar.
I daresay there’s something in what you say.
John.
Well, it’s the same with me. If you ask me why I don’t believe in the existence of God I suppose I can give you a certain number of reasons, but the real one, the one that gives all the others their force, is that I feel it in my heart.
Vicar.
What is the cause of your feeling?
John.
I’m sure you’ll think it very insufficient. I had a friend and he was killed.
Vicar.
I’m afraid one must be prepared to lose one’s friends in a war like this.
John.
I daresay it’s very silly and sentimental of me. One gets used to one’s pals dying. Someone says to you: “So-and-So’s knocked out.” And you answer: “Is he really? Poor chap.” And you don’t think very much more about it. Robbie Harrison wasn’t quite an ordinary man.
Mrs. Wharton.
I was afraid you’d feel his death very much. You never mentioned it in your letters. I felt it was because you couldn’t bear to speak of it.
John.
He was one of those lucky beggars who do everything a little better than anybody else. He was clever and awfully nice-looking and amusing. I never knew anyone who loved life so much as he did.
Mrs. Wharton.
Yes, I remember his saying to me once: “Isn’t it ripping to be alive?”
John.
But there was something more in him than that. He had one quality which was rather out of the ordinary. It’s difficult to explain what it was like. It seemed to shine about him like a mellow light. It was like the jolly feeling of the country in May. And do you know what it was? Goodness. Just goodness. He was the sort of man that I should like to be.
Mrs. Wharton.
He was a dear.
John.
I was awfully excited when war was declared. I was in India at the time. I moved heaven and earth to get out to the Front. I thought war the noblest sport in the world. I found it a dreary, muddy, dirty, stinking, bloody business. And I suppose Robbie’s death was the last straw. It seemed so unjust. I don’t know that it was grief so much that I felt as indignation. I was revolted by all the horror and pain and suffering.
Mrs. Poole.
You must have seen some dreadful things.
John.
Perhaps it’s Christianity that has shown us the possibility of a higher morality than Christianity teaches. I daresay I’m quite wrong. I can only tell you that all that’s moral in my soul revolts at the thought of a God who can permit the monstrous iniquity of war. I can’t believe that there is a God in heaven.
Vicar.
But do you realise that if there isn’t, the world is meaningless?
John.
That may be. But if there is it’s infamous.
Vicar.
What have you got to put in the place of religion? What answer can you give to the riddle of the universe?
John.
I may think your answer wrong and yet have no better one to put in its place.
Vicar.
Have you nothing to tell us at all when we ask you why man is here and what is his destiny? You are like a rudderless ship in a stormy sea.
John.
I suppose the human race has arisen under the influence of conditions which are part of the earth’s history, and under the influence of other conditions it will come to an end. I don’t see that there is any more meaning in life than in the statement that two and two are four.
Sylvia.
[With suppressed passion.] Then you think that all our efforts and struggles, our pain and sorrow, our aims, are senseless?
John.
Do you remember our going to the Russian ballet before the war? I’ve never forgotten a certain gesture of one of the dancers. It was an attitude she held for an instant, in the air; it was the most lovely thing I ever saw in my life; you felt it could only have been achieved by infinite labour, and the fact that it was so fleeting, like the shadow of a bird flying over a river, made it all the more wonderful. I’ve often thought of it since, and it has seemed to me a very good symbol of life.
Sylvia.
John, you can’t be serious.
John.
I’ll tell you what I mean. Life seems to me like a huge jig-saw puzzle that doesn’t make any picture, but if we like we can make little patterns, as it were, out of the pieces.
Sylvia.
What is the use of that?
John.
There’s no use, and no need. It’s merely something we can do for our own satisfaction. Pain and sorrow are some of the pieces that we have to deal with. By making the most of all our faculties, by using all our opportunities, out of the manifold events of life, our deeds, our feelings, our thoughts, we can make a design which is intricate, dignified, and beautiful. And death at one stroke completes and destroys it.
[There is a moment’s silence.
[There is a moment’s silence.
Mrs. Poole.
I wonder why you’re coming to church to-morrow to be married?
John.
[With a smile.] I think Sylvia would be outraged at the thought of being married in a registry office.
Mrs. Poole.
It’s lucky for you the Vicar is broad-minded. A stricter man might think it his duty to refuse the blessing of the Church to an unbeliever.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Anxiously.] Vicar, you’re not thinking of doing anything like that?
Vicar.
I confess the question has crossed my mind. [Kindly.] I don’t think I can bring myself to expose such good Christians as you and Sylvia to such a humiliation.
Sylvia.
You need not harass yourself, Vicar. I’ve decided not to marry John.
John.
[Aghast.] Sylvia! Sylvia, you can’t mean that!
Sylvia.
I was dreadfully troubled the other day when you told us you’d lost your faith, but I hadn’t the courage to say anything then. It came as such an awful shock.
John.
But you never made the least sign.
Sylvia.
I hadn’t time to think it out, but I’ve been thinking hard ever since, day and night, and I’ve listened very carefully to what you’ve said to-day. I can’t keep up the pretence any more. I’ve quite made up my mind. I won’t marry you.
John.
But in God’s name, why?
Sylvia.
You are not the John I loved and promised myself to. It’s a different man that has come back from abroad. I have nothing in common with that man.
John.
Sylvia, you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more because on certain matters I don’t hold the same views as you?
Sylvia.
But those matters are the most important in the world. You talk as though it were a difference of opinion over the colour of our drawing-room curtains. You don’t even understand me any more.
John.
How can I understand something that seems absolutely unreasonable to me?
Sylvia.
Do you think religion is something I take up with my Prayer-book when I go to church, and put away on a shelf when I get home again? John, God is a living presence that is always with me. I never at any moment lose the consciousness of that divine love which with infinite mercy tends and protects me.
John.
But, dear heart, you know me well enough. You know I would never hinder you in the exercise of your religion. I would always treat it with the utmost respect.
Sylvia.
How could we possibly be happy when all that to me is the reason and the beauty of life, to you is nothing but a lie?
John.
With tolerance on both sides, and, I hope, respect, there’s no reason why two people shouldn’t live peaceably together no matter how different their views are.
Sylvia.
How can I be tolerant when I see you deep in error? Oh, it’s more than error, it’s sin. You’ve had your choice between light and darkness, and you’ve deliberately chosen darkness. You are a deserter. If words mean anything at all you are condemned.
John.
But, my dear, a man believes what he can. You don’t seriously think that a merciful God is going to punish him because he’s unable to believe something that he finds incredible?
Sylvia.
No one doubts that Our Lord will have mercy on those who have never had the chance of receiving His teaching. You’ve had the chance, and you’ve refused to take it. Do you forget the Parable of the Ten Talents? It is a terrible warning.
John.
After all, if I’m wrong I hurt nobody but myself.
Sylvia.
You forget what marriage is. It makes us one flesh. I am bidden to cleave to you and to follow you. How can I, when our souls must ever be separated by an unsurpassable abyss?
Mrs. Wharton.
Sylvia, this is a dreadfully grave decision you’re making. Be careful that you’re acting rightly.
John.
Sylvia, you can’t throw me over like this after we’ve been engaged for seven years. It’s too heartless.
Sylvia.
I don’t trust you. I have no hold over you. What have you to aim at beside the satisfaction of your own vulgar appetite? Sin means nothing to you.
John.
My dear, you don’t suppose it’s religion that makes a man decent? If he’s kind and honest and truthful it’s because it’s his nature, not because he believes in God or fears hell.
Sylvia.
We’re neither of us very young any more, there’s no reason why we should make a mystery of natural things. If we married my greatest hope was that we should have children.
John.
It was mine too.
Sylvia.
Have you asked yourself how this would affect them? Which are they to be, Christians or Agnostics?
John.
My dear, I promise you I will not interfere with your teaching of them.
Sylvia.
Do you mean to say you will stand by while they are taught a pack of worthless lies?
John.
Your faith has been the faith of our people for hundreds of years. In the case of a difference ofopinion I could not take it on myself to refuse children instruction in it. When they reach years of discretion they can judge for themselves.
Sylvia.
And supposing they ask you about things? The story of Our Saviour appeals to children, you know. It’s very natural that they should put you questions. What will you answer?
John.
I don’t think you could ask me to say what I thought untrue.
Mrs. Wharton.
He could always refer them to you, Sylvia dear.
Sylvia.
You naturally wouldn’t come to church. What sort of an example would you set your children in a matter of which I was impressing on them the enormous importance?
John.
[With a smile.] My dear, surely you’re letting a lack of humour cloud a lively intelligence. Vast numbers of excellent churchmen don’t go to church, and I’m not aware that their children are corrupted by it.
Sylvia.
[Passionately.] You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. It’s a joke to you. It’s all over and done with, John. Let me go. I beseech you to let me go.
Colonel Wharton.
[Half rising from his chair.] I feel most awfully ill.
Mrs. Wharton.
[In alarm.] George!
John.
[Simultaneously.] Father!
[Mrs. Wharton, John,and theDoctorhurry towards him.
[Mrs. Wharton, John,and theDoctorhurry towards him.
Dr. Macfarlane.
What’s the matter?
Mrs. Wharton.
George, are you in pain?
Colonel Wharton.
Awful!
Dr. Macfarlane.
You’d better lie down on the sofa.
Colonel Wharton.
No, I’d rather go upstairs.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Don’t crowd round him.
Colonel Wharton.
I feel as if I were going to die.
Dr. Macfarlane.
Do you think you can manage to walk?
Colonel Wharton.
Yes. Help me, Evelyn.
John.
Put your arm round my neck, father.
Colonel Wharton.
No, it’s all right. I can manage.
Dr. Macfarlane.
We’ll get you upstairs and put you to bed.
Mrs. Wharton.
Come, darling, put all your weight on me.
Dr. Macfarlane.
That’s right. You needn’t come, John. You’ll only be in the way.
[Mrs. Whartonand theDoctorhelp theColonelout of the room.
[Mrs. Whartonand theDoctorhelp theColonelout of the room.
Mrs. Poole.
We’d better go, Norman. [ToJohn.] I hope it’s nothing very serious.
John.
I’m sure I hope not.
Mrs. Poole.
Please don’t bear us a grudge for any of the things Norman or I have said to you to-day. You know, I saw the letter your Colonel wrote to Mrs. Wharton when you were wounded, and I know how splendid you’ve been.
John.
Oh, nonsense!
Vicar.
I’m afraid you may have to go through a good deal of distress in the near future. If you should change your mind in some of the things that we’ve talked about this afternoon no one would be more happy than myself.
John.
It’s very good of you to say so, but I don’t think it likely.
Vicar.
One never knows by what paths the Most High will call His creatures to Himself. He is more cunning to save His children than they are to lose themselves. If you listen to the call, come to the Communion Table. I will ask no questions. It will be a joyful day for me if I am privileged to offer you the Blessed Sacrament of Our Lord and Saviour.
[He stretches out his hand andJohntakes it.
[He stretches out his hand andJohntakes it.
John.
Good-bye.
[The VicarandMrs. Poolego into the garden.Johnturns toSylvia.
[The VicarandMrs. Poolego into the garden.Johnturns toSylvia.
John.
Is it the question that the Vicar put me when we were talking about sin that has upset you, Sylvia?
Sylvia.
No, I don’t think it was very nice of him to put it. I never thought about the matter. I don’t see why I should expect you to be better than other men.
John.
Did you really mean all you said just now?
Sylvia.
Every word.
[She takes off her engagement ring and hands it to him. He does not take it.
[She takes off her engagement ring and hands it to him. He does not take it.
John.
[With deep emotion.] Sylvia, I couldn’t say it before all those people, it seemed too intimate and private a matter. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I love you? It’s been so much to me in all I’ve gone through to think of you. You’ve been everything in the world to me. When I was cold and wet and hungry and miserable, I’ve thought of you, and it all grew bearable.
Sylvia.
I’m very sorry. I can’t marry you.
John.
How can you be so cold and heartless? Sylvia, my dear, I love you! Won’t you give it a chance?
[She looks at him steadily for a moment. She braces herself for the final effort.
[She looks at him steadily for a moment. She braces herself for the final effort.
Sylvia.
But I don’t love you any more, John.
[She hands him the ring again and he takes it silently.
[She hands him the ring again and he takes it silently.
John.
It’s not a very swagger one, is it? I was none too flush in those days and I didn’t want to ask father to help me. I wanted to buy it out of my own money.
Sylvia.
I’ve worn it for seven years, John.
[He turns away fromSylviaand walks over to the fire-place. WhenSylviasees what he is going to do she makes a gesture as though to prevent him, but immediately controls herself. He stands looking at the fire for a moment, then throws the ring in; he watches what will happen to it.Sylviaclutches her heart. She can hardly prevent the sobs which seem to tear her breast.
[He turns away fromSylviaand walks over to the fire-place. WhenSylviasees what he is going to do she makes a gesture as though to prevent him, but immediately controls herself. He stands looking at the fire for a moment, then throws the ring in; he watches what will happen to it.Sylviaclutches her heart. She can hardly prevent the sobs which seem to tear her breast.
Sylvia.
I think I’ll be getting home. John—if your father or mother want me you can send, can’t you?
John.
[Looking over his shoulder.] Of course. I’ll let you know at once.
Sylvia.
[In a natural voice.] Good-bye, John.
John.
Good-bye, Sylvia.
[He turns back to look at the fire, and she walks slowly out of the room.
[He turns back to look at the fire, and she walks slowly out of the room.
THE END OF THE SECOND ACT.
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Acts. It is early morning on the following Wednesday. The dead ashes of yesterday’s fire are still in the grate. Not far away is heard the ringing of a church bell to call the faithful to the first service.Mrs. Whartonis standing by a table on which is a large basket of white flowers which she had just brought in from the garden. She picks up a rose, and with a faint smile gives it a little caress.Sylviacomes in from the garden.
The Scene is the same as in the preceding Acts. It is early morning on the following Wednesday. The dead ashes of yesterday’s fire are still in the grate. Not far away is heard the ringing of a church bell to call the faithful to the first service.
Mrs. Whartonis standing by a table on which is a large basket of white flowers which she had just brought in from the garden. She picks up a rose, and with a faint smile gives it a little caress.Sylviacomes in from the garden.
Sylvia.
[With surprise.] Mrs. Wharton!
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, Sylvia, is it you?
Sylvia.
It startled me to see you there. I came in this way because I saw the door was open and your front door bell’s so noisy. I thought if the Colonel was asleep it might wake him.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s early, isn’t it?
Sylvia.
Yes, I’m on my way to the early service. I thought I’d look in just to ask how the Colonel was. But I didn’t expect to see you. I thought Kate or Hannah might be about.
Mrs. Wharton.
George is dead, Sylvia.
Sylvia.
[In amazement.] Mrs. Wharton!
Mrs. Wharton.
He died quite peacefully about an hour ago. I’ve just been to gather some flowers to put in his room.
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, I’m so sorry. I’m so dreadfully sorry for you.
Mrs. Wharton.
[Patting her hand.] Thank you, my dear; you’ve been very kind to us during these days.
Sylvia.
Where is John?
Mrs. Wharton.
I think he must have gone out for a walk. I went to his room a little while ago and he wasn’t there. He wanted to sit up with me last night, but I wouldn’t let him.
Sylvia.
But ... but doesn’t John know his father is dead?
Mrs. Wharton.
No, not yet.
Sylvia.
Didn’t you call him?
Mrs. Wharton.
I had no idea the end was so near. George wanted to be alone with me, Sylvia. We’d been married for thirty-five years, you see. He was conscious almost to the last. He died quite suddenly, like a child going to sleep.
Sylvia.
It’s such a terrible loss. You poor dear, you must be quite heart-broken.
Mrs. Wharton.
It’s a very great loss, but I’m not heart-broken. George is happy and at rest. We should be very poor Christians if the death of those we love made us unhappy. George has entered into eternal life.
Sylvia.
Oh, Mrs. Wharton, what a blessed thing it is to have a faith like yours.
Mrs. Wharton.
My dear, a very wonderful thing happened last night. I can’t feel grief for dear George’s death because of the recollection of that. I feel so strange. I feel as though I were walking in an enchanted garden.
Sylvia.
I don’t know what you mean.
Mrs. Wharton.
Since that day when George refused to talk with the Vicar I never dared mention the subject. He was not himself. It made me so unhappy. And then last night, soon after Dr. Macfarlane went away, he asked of his own accord for Mr. Poole. The Vicar’s a dear, kind man. He’d said to me that if ever George asked for him he’d come at once, at any hour of the day or night. So I sent for him. He gave George the Holy Sacrament. And Sylvia, a miracle happened.
Sylvia.
A miracle?
Mrs. Wharton.
No sooner had the bread and the wine touched his lips than he was transfigured. All his—his anxietyleft him, and he was once more his dear, good, brave self. He was quite happy to die. It was as though an unseen hand had pulled back a dark curtain of clouds and he saw before him, not night and a black coldness, but a path of golden sunshine that led straight to the arms of God.
Sylvia.
I’m so glad. I’m happy too now.
Mrs. Wharton.
The Vicar read the prayers for the dying and then he left us. We talked of the past and of our reunion in a little while. And then he died.
Sylvia.
It’s wonderful. Yes, it was a miracle.
Mrs. Wharton.
All through my life I’ve been conscious of the hand of God shaping the destinies of man. I’ve never seen His loving mercy more plainly manifest.