There is but one escape, one chink through which we may see light; one rock on which our feet may find standing-place, even in the abyss: and that is the belief, intuitive, inspired, due neither to reasoning nor to study, that the billows are God's billows; and that though we go down to hell, He is there also;-- the belief that not we, but He, is educating us; that these seemingly fantastic and incoherent miseries, storm following earthquake, and earthquake fire, as if the caprice of all the demons were let loose against us, have in His Mind a spiritual coherence, an organic unity and purpose (though we see it not); that sorrows do not come singly, only because He is making short work with our spirits; and because the more effect He sees produced by one blow, the more swiftly He follows it up by another; till, in one great and varied crisis, seemingly long to us, but short enough compared with immortality, our spirits may be-- "Heated hot with burning fears, And bathed in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the strokes of doom, To shape and use." And thus, perhaps, it was with poor Grace Harvey.

At least, happily for her, she began after a while to think that it was so.

Only after a while, though.

There was at first a phase of repining, of doubt, almost of indignation against high heaven.

Who shall judge her?
What blame if the crucified one writhe when the first nail is driven?
What blame if the stoutest turn sick and giddy at the first home-thrust of that sword which pierces the joints and marrow, and lays bare to self the secrets of the heart?
God gives poor souls time to recover their breaths, ere He strikes again; and if He be not angry, why should we condemn?
Poor Grace! Her sorrows had been thickening fast during the last few months.