CHAPTER XI.
SLEEP.
Grace, in her humble truckle-bed, lay praying for her father; not about his trouble, though that was much, but for the spots of sin she could discern upon his soul.
Alas! an altered man was Roger Acton; almost since morning light, the leprosy had changed his very nature.

The simple-minded Christian, toiling in contentment for his daily bread, cheerful for the passing day, and trustful for the coming morrow, this fair state was well-nigh faded away; while a bitterness of feeling against (in one word) GOD--against unequal partialities in providence, against things as they exist; and this world's inexplicable government--was gnawing at his very heart-strings, and cankering their roots by unbelief.

It is a speedy process--throw away faith with its trust for the past, love for the present, hope for the future--and you throw away all that makes sorrow bearable, or joy lovely; the best of us, if God withheld his help, would apostatize like Peter, ere the cock crew thrice; and, at times, that help has wisely been withheld, to check presumptuous thoughts, and teach how true it is that the creature depends on the Creator.

Just so we suffer a wilful little child, who is tottering about in leading-strings, to go alone for a minute, and have a gentle fall.

And just so Roger here, deserted for a time of those angelic ministrations whose efficiency is proved by godliness and meekness, by patience and content, is harassed in his spirit as by harpies, by selfishness and pride, and fretful doublings; by a grudging hate of labour, and a fiery lust of gold.