Ernest made no reply to his father's
letter, but his desire for a total break developed into something like
a passion. "There are orphanages," he exclaimed to himself, "for
children who have lost their parents- oh! why, why, why, are there
no harbours of refuge for grown men who have not yet lost them?" And
he brooded over the bliss of Melchisedek who had been born an
orphan, without father, without mother, and without descent.
CHAPTER LXVIII
WHEN I think over all that Ernest told me about his prison
meditations, and the conclusions he was drawn to, it occurs to me that
in reality he was wanting to do the very last thing which it would
have entered into his head to think of wanting. I mean that he was
trying to give up father and mother for Christ's sake. He would have
said he was giving them up because he thought they hindered him in the
pursuit of his truest and most lasting happiness. Granted, but what is
this if it is not Christ? What is Christ if He is not this? He who
takes the highest and most self-respecting view of his own welfare
which it is in his power to conceive, and adheres to it in spite of
conventionality, is a Christian whether he knows it and calls
himself one, or whether he does not.
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