I had not been a strong child. They
kept the secret from my relatives because they knew they would dislike
to hear it and would not believe, and also would dislike me as a queer,
abnormal creature. Angus had fears of what they might do with doctors
and severe efforts to obliterate from my mind my "nonsense," as they
would have been sure to call it. The two wise souls had shielded me on
every side.
"It was better that you should go on thinking it only a simple, natural
thing," Angus said. "And as to natural, what IS natural and what is not?
Man has not learned all the laws of nature yet. Nature's a grand, rich,
endless thing, always unrolling her scroll with writings that seem new
on it. They're not new. They were always written there. But they were
not unrolled. Never a law broken, never a new law, only laws read with
stronger eyes."
Angus and I had always been very fond of the Bible--the strange old
temple of wonders, full of all the poems and tragedies and histories of
man, his hates and battles and loves and follies, and of the Wisdom of
the universe and the promises of the splendors of it, and which even
those of us who think ourselves the most believing neither wholly
believe nor will understand. We had pored over and talked of it. We had
never thought of it as only a pious thing to do. The book was to us one
of the mystic, awe-inspiring, prophetic marvels of the world.
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