"What has become of Him, Dad?" she said. She
spoke in a cold voice, as one does of a false friend.
"I do not know," he answered her. "I don't seem to care."
"He must be somewhere," she said: "the living God of love and hope: the
God that Christ believed in."
"They were His last words, too," he answered: "'My God, my God, why hast
Thou forsaken me?'"
"No, not His last," said Joan: "'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the
end of the world.' Love was Christ's God. He will help us to find Him."
Their arms were about one another. Joan felt that a new need had been
born in her: the need of loving and of being loved. It was good to lay
her head upon his breast and know that he was glad of her coming.
He asked her questions about herself. But she could see that he was
tired; so she told him it was too important a matter to start upon so
late. She would talk about herself to-morrow. It would be Sunday.
"Do you still go to the chapel?" she asked him a little hesitatingly.
"Yes," he answered. "One lives by habit."
"It is the only Temple I know," he continued after a moment.
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