His fruit according to His own knowledge. I brought you up a passage to
read to you.”

There was a lantern upon the table, and he sat down beside it. The
yellow light shone upon his heavy cheek and the red edges of his book.
The strong, steady voice rose above the wash of the water.

“'Let them give thanks whom the Lord hath redeemed and delivered from
the hand of the enemy, and gathered them out of the lands, from the
east, and from the west, from the north, and from the south. They went
astray in the wilderness out of the way, and found no city to dwell in.
Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them. So they cried unto the
Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them from their distress. He led
them forth by the right way, that they might go to the city where they
dwelt. Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and
declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men.'

[Illustration: He delivered them from their distress p273]

“It sounds as if it were composed for us, and yet it was written two
thousand years ago,” said the clergyman, as he closed the book. “In
every age man has been forced to acknowledge the guiding hand which
leads him. For my part I don't believe that inspiration stopped
two thousand years ago. When Tennyson wrote with such fervour and
conviction,--

     'Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
     Will be the final goal of ill.'

he was repeating the message which had been given to him, just as Micah
or Ezekiel when the world was younger repeated some cruder and more
elementary lesson.”

“That is all very well, Mr. Stuart,” said the Frenchman; “you ask me to
praise God for taking me out of danger and pain, but what I want to know
is why, since He has arranged all things, He ever put me into that pain
and danger. I have in my opinion more occasion to blame than to praise.
You would not thank me for pulling you out of that river if it was also
I who pushed you in. The most which you can claim for your Providence is
that it has healed the wound which its own hand inflicted.”

“I don't deny the difficulty,” said the clergyman, slowly; “no one who
is not self-deceived _can_ deny the difficulty. Look how boldly Tennyson
faced it in that same poem, the grandest and deepest and most obviously
inspired in our language. Remember the effect which it had upon him.

     'I falter where I firmly trod,
     And falling with my weight of cares
     Upon the great world's altar stairs,
     Which slope through darkness up to God,

     'I stretch lame hands of faith and grope
     And gather dust and chaff, and call
     To what I feel is Lord of all,
     And faintly trust the larger hope.'

It is the central mystery of mysteries--the problem of sin and
suffering, the one huge difficulty which the reasoner has to solve in
order to vindicate the dealings of God with man. But take our own case
as an example. I, for one, am very clear what I have got out of our
experience. I say it with all humility, but I have a clearer view of
my duties than ever I had before. It has taught me to be less remiss in
saying what I think to be true, less indolent in doing what I feel to be
rightful.”

“And I,” cried Sadie. “It has taught me more than all my life put
together. I have learned so much and unlearned so much. I am a different
girl.”

“I never understood my own nature before,” said Stephens. “I can hardly
say that I had a nature to understand. I lived for what was unimportant,
and I neglected what was vital.”

“Oh, a good shake-up does nobody any harm,” the Colonel remarked. “Too
much of the feather-bed-and-four-meals-a-day life is not good for man or
woman.”

“It is my firm belief,” said Mrs. Belmont, gravely, “that there was not
one of us who did not rise to a greater height during those days in the
desert than ever before or since. When our sins come to be weighed, much
may be forgiven us for the sake of those unselfish days.”

They all sat in thoughtful silence for a little while the scarlet
streaks turned to carmine, and the grey shadows deepened, and the
wild-fowl flew past in dark straggling V's over the dull metallic
surface of the great smooth-flowing Nile. A cold wind had sprung up from
the eastward, and some of the party rose to leave the deck. Stephens
leaned forward to Sadie.

“Do you remember what you promised when you were in the desert?” he
whispered.

“What was that?”

“You said that if you escaped you would try in future to make some one
else happy.”

“Then I must do so.”

“You have,” said he, and their hands met under the shadow of the table.

THE END.