"No, He does not care," she answered, with angry emphasis, and The Pilot
made no reply.
"Perhaps," she went on, hesitatingly, "He's angry because I said I
didn't care for Him, you remember? That was very wicked. But don't you
think I'm punished nearly enough now? You made me very angry, and I
didn't really mean it."
Poor Gwen! God had grown to be very real to her during these weeks
of pain, and very terrible. The Pilot looked down a moment into the
blue-gray eyes, grown so big and so pitiful, and hurriedly dropping on
his knees beside the bed he said, in a very unsteady voice:
"Oh, Gwen, Gwen, He's not like that. Don't you remember how Jesus was
with the poor sick people? That's what He's like."
"Could Jesus make me well?"
"Yes, Gwen."
"Then why doesn't He?" she asked; and there was no impatience now, but
only trembling anxiety as she went on in a timid voice: "I asked Him to,
over and over, and said I would wait two months, and now it's more than
three. Are you quite sure He hears now?" She raised herself on her elbow
and gazed searchingly into The Pilot's face. I was glad it was not into
mine. As she uttered the words, "Are you quite sure?" one felt that
things were in the balance. I could not help looking at The Pilot with
intense anxiety. What would he answer? The Pilot gazed out of the window
upon the hills for a few moments.
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