Even the withered shrubs were
fenced off behind a railing. A ragged figure sprawled upon the bench
opposite to her. It snored gently, and its breath came laden with the
odour of cheap whisky.
But it was her Gethsemane: the best that Fate had been able to do for
her. It was here that her choice would be made. She felt that.
And there rose before her the vision of that other Garden of Gethsemane
with, below it, the soft lights of the city shining through the trees;
and above, clear against the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross.
It was only a little cross, hers, by comparison. She could see that.
They seemed to be standing side by side. But then she was only a
woman--little more than a girl. And her courage was so small. She
thought He ought to know that. For her, it was quite a big cross. She
wondered if He had been listening to all her arguments. There was really
a good deal of sense in some of them. Perhaps He would understand. Not
all His prayer had come down to us. He, too, had put up a fight for
life. He, too, was young. For Him, also, life must have seemed but just
beginning.
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