a fear something had happened to him, for from that time forward
he dropped all reserve with me, and talked openly of our approaching
parting.

"It might have come to us earlier, my dear boy," he would say with his
arm round me, "or it might have been a little later. A year or so one
way or the other, what does it matter? And it is only for a little
while, Paul. We shall meet again."

But I could not answer him, for clutch them to me as I would, all my
beliefs--the beliefs in which I had been bred, the beliefs that until
then I had never doubted, in that hour of their first trial, were
falling from me. I could not even pray. If I could have prayed for
anything, it would have been for my father's life. But if prayer were
all powerful, as they said, would our loved ones ever die? Man has not
faith enough, they would explain; if he had there would be no parting.
So the Lord jests with His creatures, offering with the one hand to
snatch back with the other. I flung the mockery from me. There was no
firm foothold anywhere. What were all the religions of the word but
narcotics with which Humanity seeks to dull its pain, drugs in which it
drowns its terrors, faith but a bubble that death pricks.

I do not mean my thoughts took this form. I was little more than a lad,
and to the young all thought is dumb, speaking only with a cry. But they
were there, vague, inarticulate. Thoughts do not come to us as we grow
older. They are with us all our lives. We learn their language, that is
all.

One fair still evening it burst from me. We had lingered in the Park
longer than usual, slowly pacing the broad avenue leading from the
Observatory to the Heath. I poured forth all my doubts and fears--that
he was leaving me for ever, that I should never see him again, I could
not believe. What could I do to believe?

"I am glad you have spoken, Paul," he said, "it would have been sad had
we parted not understanding each other. It has been my fault. I did not
know you had these doubts. They come to all of us sooner or later. But
we hide them from one another. It is foolish."

"But tell me," I cried, "what can I do? How can I make myself believe?"

"My dear lad," answered my father, "how can it matter what we believe or
disbelieve? It will not alter God's facts. Would you liken Him to some
irritable schoolmaster, angry because you cannot understand him?"

"What do you believe," I asked, "father, really I mean."

The night had fallen. My