a very quiet, active, useful
life, models of good citizens--religious, contented, drawing great
happiness from very simple resources.

One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the patience of the Father
and Maker of men forbids one to believe that he can ever be wantonly
cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible to see the mercy or
justice of his actions in this case. And the misery is that, if it
could be proved that in one single case, however small, God's goodness
had, so to speak, broken down; if there were evidence of neglect or
carelessness or indifference, in the case of one single child of his,
one single sentient thing that he has created, it would be impossible
to believe in his omnipotence any more. Either one would feel that he
was unjust and cruel, or that there was some evil power at work in the
world which he could not overcome.

For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. The man's useful,
gentle life is over, the sister is broken down, unhappy, a second time
made desolate; the children's education has suffered, their home is
made miserable. The only thing that one can see, that is in any degree
a compensation, is the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends,
relations, and employers in making things easy for the afflicted
household. And then, too, there is the heroic quality of soul
displayed by the sufferer himself and his sister--a heroism which is
ennobling to think of, and yet humiliating too, because it seems to be
so far out of one's own reach.

This is a very dark abyss of the world into which we are looking. The
case is an extreme one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, in
this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. Of course, one may take
refuge in a gloomy acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be
part of the world as it is made, and we cannot explain them, while we
dumbly hope that we may be spared such woes. But that is a dark and
despairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at all, unless I feel
that God is indeed more upon our side than that. I cannot live at all,
I say. And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of God in whatever
form it is laid upon me--in joy or in pain, in contentment or sick
despair. Why am I at one with the Will of God when it gives me
strength, and hope, and delight? Why am I so averse to it when it
brings me languor, and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; and
that is the enigma which has confronted m