"It makes much difference to me," h e answered; he put his hand on her soft hair and tried to press her head down again on his shoulder. But she drew away.
"No; no."
"But--" he began. She interrupted him.
"Listen," she said; and then, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes breaking into a sob, she told him the story of that November night. He could hardly hear it through.
"Love, you loved me! You will marry me."
"No; I am a wicked girl--a--a--an immodest girl--"
"My beloved, you meant no wrong--"
He paused, seeing that she was not listening.
Her father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; William King, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads, had summoned Henry Roberts to "come along and give 'em your blessing!"
But as he reached them, standing now apart, the doctor's smile faded--evidently something had happened. John Fenn, tense with distress, called to him with frowning command: "Doctor! Tell her, for heaven's sake, tell her that it was nothing--that charm! Tell her she did no wrong."
"No one can do that," Henry Roberts said; "it was a sin."
"Now, look here--" Dr. King began.
"It was a sin to try to move by foolish arts the will of God."
Philippa turned to the young man, standing quivering beside her. "You see?" she said.
"No! No, I don't see--or if I do, never mind."
Just for a moment her face cleared.
(Yes, truly, he was not thinking of her soul now!) But the gleam faded. "Oh, father, I am a great sinner," she whispered.
"No, you're not!" William King said.
"Yes, my Philippa, you are," Henry Roberts agreed, solemnly.
The lover made a despairing gesture:
"Doctor King! tell her 'no!' 'no!'"
"Yes," her father went on, "it was a sin. Therefore, Philippa, SIN NO MORE.
Did you pray that this young man's love might be given to you?"
Philippa said, in a whisper, "Yes."
"And it was given to you?"
"Yes."
"Philippa, was it the foolish weed that moved him to love?" She was silent. "My child, my Philly, it was your Saviour who moved the heart of this youth, because you asked Him.
Will you do such despite to your Lord as to reject the gift he has given in answer to your prayer?" Philippa, with parted lips, was listening intently: "The gift He had given!"
Dr. King dared not speak. John Fenn looked at him, and then at Philippa, and trembled. Except for the sound of a bird stirring in its nest overhead in the branches, a sunny stillness brooded over the garden. Then, suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a strange sound--a loud, cadenced chant, full of rhythmical repetitions.
The three who heard it thrilled from head to foot; Henry Roberts did not seem to hear it: it came from his own lips.
"Oh, Philippa! Oh, Philippa! I do require--I do require that you accept your Saviour's gift. Add not sin to sin. Oh, add not sin to sin by making prayer of no avail! Behold, He has set before thee an open door. Oh, let no man shut it. Oh, let no man shut it...."
The last word fell into a low, wailing note. No one spoke. The bird rustled in the leaves above them; a butterfly wavered slowly down to settle on a purple flag in the sunshine. Philly's eyes filled with blessed tears. She stretched out her arms to her father and smiled. But it was John Fenn who caught those slender, trembling arms against his breast; and, looking over at the old man, he said, softly, "THE VOICE OF GOD."
... "and I," said William King, telling the story that night to Dr.
Lavendar--"I just wanted to say 'the voice of COMMON SENSE!'"
"My dear William," said the old man, gently, "the most beautiful thing in the world is the knowledge that comes to you, when you get to be as old as I am, that they are the same thing."
