"Somewhere there must be common ground for us to stand on; and
our church makes very large--I think too large, allowances for
difference. For my own part, I accept tradition outright, because I
think it wiser to receive a mystery than to weaken faith; but no one
exacts such strictness from you. There are scores of clergymen to-day in
our pulpits who are in my eyes little better than open skeptics, yet I
am not allowed to refuse communion with them. Why should you refuse it
with me? You must at last trust in some mysterious and humanly
incomprehensible form of words. Even Strong has to do this. Why may you
not take mine?"
"I hardly know what to trust in," said Esther sadly.
"Then trust in me."
"I wish I could, but--"
"But what? Tell me frankly where your want of confidence lies."
"I want to tell you, but I'm afraid. This is what has stood between us
from the first. If I told you what was on my lips, you would think it an
insult. Don't drive me into offending you! If you knew how much I want
to keep your friendship, you would not force me to say such things."
"I will not be offended," answered Hazard gayly. "I can stand almost any
thing except being told that you no longer love me."
It wrung Esther's heart to throw away a love so pure and devoted. She
felt ashamed of her fears and of herself. As he spoke, her ears seemed
to hear a running echo: "Mistress, know yourself! Down on your knees,
and thank heaven fasting for a good man's love!" She sat some moments
silent while he gazed into her face, and her eyes wandered out to the
gloomy and cloud-covered cataract.
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