"I think you have told me he always was delicate?"
"And you have noticed him looking so lately, Mr. Olmney?"
"I have thought so,--but you say he always was that. If you will permit me to say so, I have thought the same of you, Miss Fleda."
Fleda was silent; her heart ached again.
"We would gladly save each other from every threatening trouble," said Mr. Olmney again after a pause;--"but it ought to content us that we do not know how. Hugh is in good hands, my dear Miss Ringgan."
"I know it, sir," said Fleda unable quite to keep back her tears,--"and I know very well this thread of our life will not bear the strain always,--and I know that the strands must in all probability part unevenly,--and I know it is in the power of no blind fate,--but that--"
"Does not lessen our clinging to each other. Oh no!--it grows but the tenderer and the stronger for the knowledge."
Fleda could but cry.
"And yet," said he very kindly,--"we who are Christians may and ought to learn to take troubles hopefully; for 'tribulation worketh patience; and patience,' that is, quiet waiting on God, 'works experience' of his goodness and faithfulness; 'and experience worketh hope; and that hope, we know, 'maketh not ashamed.'"
"I know it," said Fleda;--"but, Mr. Olmney, how easily the brunt of a new affliction breaks down all that chain of reasoning!"