face; and men had
better leave him alone, for he can not greatly mistake his Father, and
certainly will not displease him. Look for the lovely will, my child,
that you may be its servant, its priest, its sister, its queen, its
slave--as Paul calls himself. How that man did glory in his Master!"

"I will try, father," returned Mary, with a burst of tears. "I do want
to be good. I do want to be one of his slaves, if I may."

"_May!_ my child? You are bound to be. You have no choice but choose
it. It is what we are made for--freedom, the divine nature, God's life,
a grand, pure, open-eyed existence! It is what Christ died for. You
must not talk about _may;_ it is all _must._"

Mary had never heard her father talk like this, and, notwithstanding
the endless interest of his words, it frightened her. An instinctive
uneasiness crept up and laid hold of her. The unsealing hand of Death
was opening the mouth of a dumb prophet.

A pause followed, and he spoke again.

"I will tell you one thing now that Jesus says: he is unchangeable;
what he says once he says always; and I mention it now, because it may
not be long before you are specially called to mind it. It is this:
_'Let not your heart be troubled.'_"

"But he said that on one particular occasion, and to his disciples--did
he not?" said Mary, willing, in her dread, to give the conversation a
turn.

"Ah, Mary!" said her father, with a smile, "_will_ you let the
questioning spirit deafen you to the teaching one? Ask yourself, the
first time you are alone, what the disciples were not to be troubled
about, and why they were not to be troubled about it.--I am tired, and
should like to go to bed."

He rose, and stood for a moment in front of the fire, winding his old
double-cased silver watch. Mary took from her side the little gold one
he had given her, and, as was her custom, handed it to him to wind for
her. The next moment he had dropped it on the fender.

"Ah, my child!" he cried, and, stooping, gathered up a dying thing,
whose watchfulness was all over. The glass was broken; the case was
open; it lay in his hand a mangled creature. Mary heard the rush of its
departing life, as the wheels went whirring, and the hands circled
rapidly.

They stopped motionless. She looked up in her father's face with a
smile. He was looking concerned.

"I am very sorry, Mary," he said; "but, if it is past repair, I will
get you another.--You don't seem to mind it much!" he added,