who asked about his health. 'In body, I am well,' he answered; 'but in mind I suffer always, and my suffering is the greater because I cannot speak of it.'"
There was a pause. Clémence bent down over the fair head of her little son to hide the tears which were dropping slowly. "My child had better go to his rest," she said.
The child's eager face was upturned, and the request to stay was on his trembling lips, when Ivan interposed. "No," he said. "Let him hear all, Clémence. He has the right.—But, Henri, was there no one near to ask whence all this anguish and sorrow of heart?"
"Some at least of its hidden sources were not hard to guess. Had he not tasted all the bitterness of failure—worse a thousand times than the bitterness of death? Which of all the plans, the hopes that his soul hung upon, had found its fulfilment? Which had not disappointed him? The Holy Alliance had become the tool of selfish politicians, perhaps even the instrument of tyrants. The dissemination of the Holy Scriptures, from which he hoped so much, had proved, apparently, a cause of discord and confusion; his people, so loved and toiled for, had 'shown themselves insensible to the benefits he sought to confer upon them;' and secret societies and plots for his assassination had answered his unceasing efforts to do them good. Well might he say, with one of old, 'I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nought and in vain.' And with another, 'Now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.'"
"But oh, Henri," asked Clémence, struggling with her tears, "did he not know, all through, in whom he had believed? Did not Christ, in the darkest hour, stand beside his suffering servant?"
Henri's face grew sadder still. "Clémence—Ivan, must I tell you all I think?" he asked.
"All," said Ivan. "Keep nothing back."
"Then I think the face of his Lord was hid from him.
