The finished likeness was done with great truth and grace. Dolly's talent was an extraordinary one, and had not been uncultivated. She had done her best in the present instance, and the result was a really delicious piece of work. Lawrence saw himself given to great advantage; truly, delicately, characteristically. He was delighted.

"I will send it right off," he said. "Mamma has nothing of me half so good."

"Ask her what she thinks it is worth."

"And I want you to paint a duplicate of this, for me; for myself."

"A duplicate!" cried Dolly. "I couldn't."

"Another likeness of me then, in another view. Set your own price."

"But I shall never make my fortune painting you," said Dolly. "You must get me some other customers; that is the bargain."

"What notion is this, Dolly? It is nonsense between me and you. Why not let things be settled? Let us come to an understanding, and give up this ridiculous idea of painting for money; – if you are in earnest."

"I am always in earnest. And we are upon an excellent understanding, Mr. St. Leger. And I want money. The thing is as harmonious as possible."

CHAPTER XXII
MR. COPLEY

Lawrence could get no more satisfaction from Dolly. She left him, and went and stood at the window of her mother's room, looking out. The sunset landscape was glorious. Bay and boats, shipping, palaces, canals and bridges, all coloured in such wonderful colours, brilliant in such marvellous lights and shades, as northern lands do not know, though they have their own. Yet she looked at it sadly. It was Venice; but when would her father come? All her future seemed doubtful and cloudy; and the sunshine which is merely external does not in some moods cast even a reflection of brightness upon one's inner world. If her father would come, and Lawrence would go – if her father would come and be his old self – but what large "ifs" these were. Dolly's eyes grew misty. Then her mother woke up.

"What are you looking at, Dolly?"

"The wonderful sunset, mother. Oh, it is so beautiful! Do come here and see the colours on the sails of the boats."

"When do you think your father will be here?"

"Oh, soon, I hope. He ought to be here soon."

"Did you tell him I would want money to buy things? I must not lose that sideboard."

"There was no need to write about that. He can always get money, if he chooses, as well here as in London. If he has it, that is; but you know, mother" —

"I know," Mrs. Copley interrupted, "that is all nonsense. He has it. He always did have it. He has been spending it in other ways lately; that's what it is. Getting his own pleasure. Now it is my turn."

"You shall have it, dear mother, if I can manage it. You are nicely to-day, aren't you? Venice agrees with you. I'm so glad!"

"I think everything would go right, Dolly, if you would just tell Mr. St. Leger that you will have him. I don't like such humming and hawing about anything. He really has waited long enough. If you would tell him that, now, or tell me, then he would lend me the money I want to get those things. I am afraid of losing them. Dolly, when you know you are going to say yes, why not say it? I believe I should get well then, right off. You would be safe too, any way."

Dolly sighed imperceptibly, and made no answer.

"You don't half appreciate Mr. St. Leger. He's just a splendid young man. I don't believe there's such another match for you in all England. You should have seen how keen Mrs. Thayer was to know all about him. Wouldn't she like him for her daughter, though! and she is handsome enough, according to some taste. I wish, Dolly, you'd have everything fixed and square before we meet the Thayers again; or you cannot tell what may happen. He may slip through your fingers yet."

Dolly made as little answer as possible. And further, she contrived for a few days to keep her mother from the curiosity shops. It could be done only by staying persistently within doors; and Dolly shut herself up to her painting, and made excuses. But she found this was telling unfavourably on her mother's spirits, and so on her nerves and health; and she began to go out again, though chafing at her dependence on Lawrence, and longing for her father exceedingly.

He came at last; and Dolly to her great relief thought he looked well; though certainly not glad to be in Venice.

"How's your mother?" he asked her when they were alone.

"I think she will be well now, father; now that you have come. And I have so wanted you!"

"I have no doubt she could have got along just as well without me till she went to Sorrento, if she had only thought so."

"I don't think she could. And I could not, father. I do not like to be left so much to Mr. St. Leger's care."

"He likes it. How has he behaved?"

"He has behaved very well."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I don't want him to think he has a right to take care of us."

"He has the right, if I give it to him. And you know you mean to give him the right, Dolly, in permanence. What's the use of fighting shy about it? Oh, girls, girls! You must have your way, I suppose. Well, now I'm here to look after you."

And the business of sight-seeing was carried on from that time with unabating activity. They went everywhere, and still Mr. Copley found new things for them to see. Mrs. Copley took him into the curiosity shops, but as surely he took her out of them, with not much done in the way of purchases. Dolly enjoyed everything during the first week or two. She would have enjoyed it hugely, only that the lurking care about her father was always present to her mind. She was not at rest. Mr. Copley seemed well and cheery; active and hearty as usual; yet Dolly detected something hollow in the cheer and something forced in the activity. She thought him restless and uneasy, in spite of all the gaiety.

One day after an excursion of some length the party had turned into a restaurant to refresh themselves. Chocolate and coffee had been brought; and then Mr. Copley exclaimed, "Hang it! this won't do. Have you drunk nothing but slops all this while, Lawrence?" And he ordered the waiter to bring a flask of Greek wine. Dolly's heart leaped to her mouth.

"Oh no, father!" she said pleadingly, laying her hand on his.

"Oh no, what, my child?"

"No wine, please, father!" There was more intensity in Dolly's accents than perhaps anybody knew but Mr. Copley; he had the key; and the low quaver in Dolly's voice did not escape him. He answered without letting himself meet her eyes.

"Why not? Hasn't Lawrence given you any vino dolce since you have been in foreign parts? One can get good wine in Venice; and pure."

"If one knows where to go for it," added St. Leger. "So I am told."

"You have not found out by experience yet? We will explore together."

"Not for wine, father?" murmured Dolly.

"Yes, for wine. Wine is one of the good things. What do you think grapes grow for, eh? Certainly, wine is a good thing, if it is properly used. Eh, Lawrence?"

"I have always thought so, sir."

"Cheer your mother up now, Dolly. I believe it would do her lots of good. Here it is. We'll try."

Dolly flushed with pain and anxiety. Yet here, how could she speak plainly? Her father was opening the bottle, and the waiter was setting the glasses.

"We have it on good authority, Miss Dolly," Lawrence said, looking at her, and not sure how far he might venture, "that wine 'maketh glad the heart of man.'"

"And on the same authority we have it that 'wine is a mocker.'"

"What will you do with contradictory authority?"

"They are not contradictory, those two words," said Dolly. "It is deceitful; it gets hold of a man, and then he cannot get loose from it. You know, Mr. St. Leger, what work it does."

"Not good wine," said her father, tossing off his glass. "That's fair; nothing extra. I think we can find better. Letitia, try it; I have a notion it will do you good; – ought to have been tried before."

And he filled his wife's glass, and then Dolly's, and then Rupert's. Dolly felt as nearly desperate as ever in her life. Her father had the air of a man who has broken through a slight barrier between him and comfort. Mrs. Copley sipped the wine. Lawrence looked observingly from one face to another. Then Dolly stretched out her hand and laid it upon Rupert's glass.

"Please stand by me, Rupert!" she begged.

"I will!" said the young man, smiling. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do as I do."

"I will."

Dolly lifted her glass and poured the contents of it into the nearly emptied chocolate jug. Rupert immediately followed her example.

"What's that for?" said her father, frowning.

"It's waste," added her mother. "I call that waste."

"Don't make yourself ridiculous, Dolly!" Mr. Copley went on. "My child, the world has drunk wine ever since before you were born, and it will go on drinking it after you are dead. What is the use of trying to change what cannot be changed? What can you do?"

"Father, I will not help a bad cause."

"How is it a bad cause, Miss Dolly?" said Lawrence now. "It is a certain pleasure, – but what harm?"

"Do you ask me that?" said she, with a look of her clear, womanly eyes, which it was not very pleasant to meet.

"Well, of course, if people misuse the thing," – he began.

"Do they often misuse it, Mr. St. Leger?"

"Well, yes; perhaps they do."

"Go on. What are the consequences, when they misuse it?"

"When people drink too much bad brandy of course – but wine like this never hurt anybody."

Dolly thought, it had hurt her that day; but she could not trust her voice to say it. Her lips trembled, her beautiful eyes filled, she was obliged to wait. And how, there before her father whom the fruit of the vine had certainly hurt grievously, and before Mr. St. Leger who knew as much and had seen it, could she put the thing in words? Her father had chosen his time cruelly. And where was his promise? Dolly fought and swallowed and struggled with herself; and tried to regain command of voice.

"It's a narrow view, ray dear," said Mr. Copley, filling his glass again, to Dolly's infinite horror; "a narrow view. Well-bred people do not hold it. It is always a mistake to set yourself against the world. The world is generally right."

"O father, do you think so?"

"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Copley, sipping the wine and looking from one to another of the faces in the little group. "Dolly is a foolish girl, Rupert; do not let her persuade you."

"It certainly is not the wine that is to be condemned," said Lawrence, "but the immoderate use of it. That's all."

"What do you call immoderate use of it?" Rupert asked now, putting the question in Dolly's interest.

"More than your head can bear," said Lawrence. "Keep within that limit, and you're all right."

"Suppose your neighbour cannot bear what you can?" said Dolly, looking at him. "And suppose your example tempts him?"

"It's his business to know what he can take," said Lawrence. "It isn't mine."

"But suppose he is drawn on by your example, and drinks more than he can bear? What follows, Mr. St. Leger?"

Dolly's voice had a pathetic clang which touched Rupert, and I think embarrassed Lawrence.

"If he is so unwise, of course he suffers for it. But as I said, that is his business."

"And not yours?"

"Of course not!" Mr. Copley broke in. "Dolly, you do not understand the world. How can I tell St. Leger how much he is to drink? or he tell me how much I must? Don't be absurd, child! You grow a little absurd, living alone."

"Father, I think the world might be better than it is. And one person helps on another for good or for evil. And St. Paul was not of your opinion."

"St. Paul? What did he say about it? That one must not drink wine? Not at all. He told Timothy, or somebody, to take it, for his stomach's sake."

"But he said, – that if meat made his brother to offend, he would eat no meat while the world stood, lest he made his brother to offend. And meat is certainly a good thing."

"Well, there are just two things about it," said Mr. Copley; "meat is not wine, and I am not St. Paul. A little more, Lawrence. If it is not a man's duty to look after his neighbour's potations, neither is it a woman's. Dolly is young; she will learn better."

If she did not, Lawrence thought, she would be an inconvenient helpmeet for him. He was very much in love; but certainly he would not wish his wife to take up a crusade against society. Perhaps Dolly would learn better; he hoped so. Yet the little girl had some reason, too; for her father gave her trouble, Lawrence knew. "I'm sorry," he thought, "deuced sorry! but really I can't be expected to take Mr. Copley, wine and all, on my shoulders. Really it is not my look-out."

Dolly went home very sober and careful. It is true, not much wine had been drunk that day. Yet she knew a line had been passed, the passing of which was significant of future licence, and introductory to it. And that it had been done in her presence was to prove to her that her influence could avail nothing. It was bravado. What lay before her now?

"Rupert," she said suddenly, as they were walking together, "let us make a solemn pledge, you and I, each to the other, that we will never drink wine nor anything of the sort; unless we must, for sickness, you know."

"What would be the good of that?" said the young man, laughing.

"I don't know," said Dolly, from whose eyes, on the contrary, hot tears began to drop. "Perhaps I shall save you, and you may save me; how can we tell?"

"But we could keep from it just the same, without pledging ourselves?" said Rupert, soberly enough now.

"Could; but we might be tempted. If we do this, maybe we can help other people, as well as each other."

The tears were coming so thick from Dolly's eyes that Rupert's heart was sore for her. She was brushing them away, right and left, but he saw them glitter and fall; and he thought the man who could, for the sake of a glass of wine, cause such tears to be shed, was – I won't say what he thought he was. He was mad against Mr. Copley and St. Leger too. He promised whatever Dolly wanted.

And when they were at home, and an opportunity was found, the agreement abovementioned was written out, and Rupert made two copies, and one of them he kept and one Dolly kept; both signed with both their names.

So Rupert was safe. From that day, however, things went less well with Mr. Copley. He began by small degrees to withdraw himself from the constant attendance upon his wife and daughter which he had hitherto practised, leaving them again to Lawrence's care. By little and little this came about. Mr. Copley excused himself in the morning, and was with them in the evening; then after a while he was missing in the evening. Dolly tried to hold him fast, by getting him to sit for his picture; and the very observation under which she held him so, showed her that he was suffering from evil influences. His eyes had lost something of their frank, manly sparkle; avoided hers; looked dull and unsteady. The lines of his whole face inexplicably were changed; an expression of feebleness and something like humiliation taking place of the alert, bold, self-sufficient readiness of look and tone which had been natural to him. Dolly read it all, with a heart torn in two, and painted it as she read it; making a capital picture of him. But it grieved Dolly sorely, while it delighted everybody else.

"What is it worth, father?" she asked, concealing as well as she could what she felt.

"Worth? it's worth anything you please. It is glorious, Dolly!"

"I work for money," she said archly.

"Upon my word, you could turn a pretty penny if you did. This is capital work," said he, turning to Lawrence. "If this had been done on ivory, now" —

"I did a likeness of Mr. St. Leger for his mother – that was on ivory. She sent me ten pounds for it."

"Ten pounds to her. To anybody else, I should say it was worth twenty, – well," said Mr. Copley.

"So I say, sir," Lawrence answered. "I am going to pay that price for my copy."

"Then will you pay me twenty pounds, sir?"

"I?" said Mr. Copley. "Not exactly, Dolly! I am not made of money, like your friend Lawrence here. Wish I could, and you should have it."

"Will you get me customers, then, father?"

"Customers!" echoed Mr. Copley.

"Yes. Because you are not made of money, you know, father; and I want a good deal of money."

"You!" said Mr. Copley, looking at her. For, indeed, Dolly had never been one of those daughters who make large demands on their father's purse. But Dolly answered now with a calm, practical tone and manner.

"Yes, I do, father; and mother has a longing for some of those Arabian Nights things in the curiosity shops. You know people enough here, father; show them your picture and get me customers."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dolly," said her father. "We are not at the point of distress yet. And," he added in a graver tone, as Lawrence left the room, "you must remember, that even if I were willing to see my daughter working as a portrait-painter, Mr. St. Leger might have a serious objection to his wife doing it – or a lady who is to be his wife."

"Mr. St. Leger may dispose of his wife when he gets her," said Dolly calmly. "I am not that lady."

"Yes, you are."

"Not if I know anything about it."

"Then you don't!" said Mr. Copley. "It is proverbial that girls never know their own minds. Why, Dolly, it would be the making of you, child."

"No, father; only of my dresses."

Mr. Copley was a little provoked.

"What's your objection to St. Leger? Can you give one?" he asked hotly.

"Father, he doesn't suit me."

"You don't like him, because you don't like him. A real woman's reason! Isn't he handsome?"

"Very. And sleepy."

"He's wide awake enough for purposes of business."

"Maybe; not for purposes of pleasure. Father, beautiful paintings and grand buildings are nothing to him; nothing at all; and music might be the tinkling of tin kettles for all the meaning he finds in it. Father, dear, do get me some customers!"

"You are a silly girl, Dolly!" said her father, breaking away, and not very well pleased. Neither did he bring her customers. Those were not the days of photographs. Dolly took to painting little bits of views in Venice; here a palace; there a bridge over a canal; the pillars with the dragon and St. Theodore, the Place of St. Mark, bits of the Riva with boats; she finished up these little pictures with great care and delicacy of execution, and then employed Rupert to dispose of them in the stationers' and fancy shops. He had some difficulty at first in finding the right market for her wares; however, he finally succeeded; and Dolly could sell as many pictures as she could paint. True, not for a great price; they did not pay so well as likenesses; but Dolly took what she could get, feeling very uncertain of supplies for a time that was coming. Mr. Copley certainly was not flush with his money now; and she did not flatter herself that his ways were mending.

Less and less did his wife and daughter see of his company.

"Rupert," said Dolly doubtfully, one day, "do you know where my father goes, so much of the time?"

"No," said Rupert; "that's just what I don't. But I can find out, easy."

Dolly did not say, Do; she did not say anything; she stood pondering and anxious by the window. Neither did Rupert ask further; he acted.

It came by degrees to be a pretty regular thing, that Mr. Copley spent the evening abroad, excused himself from going anywhere with his family, and when they did see him wore an uncertain, purposeless, vagrant sort of look and air. By degrees this began to strike even Mrs. Copley.

"I wish you would just make up your mind to marry Mr. St. Leger!" she said almost weepingly one day. "Then all would go right. I believe it would make me well, to begin with; and it would bring your father right back to his old self."

"How, mother?" Dolly said sadly.

"It would give him spirit at once. It is because he is out of spirits that he does so." (Mrs. Copley did not explain herself.) "I know, if he were once sure of seeing you Mrs. St. Leger, all would come right. Lawrence would help him; he could help him then."

"Who would help me?"

"Nonsense, Dolly! Who would help you choose your dresses and wear your diamonds; that is all the difficulty you would have. But all's going wrong!" said Mrs. Copley, sinking into tears; "and you are selfish, like everybody else, and think only of yourself."

Dolly bore this in silence. It startled her, however, greatly, to find her own view of things held by her much less sharp-sighted mother. She pondered on what was best to do. Should she sit still and quietly see her father lost irretrievably in the bad habits which were creeping upon him? But what step could she take? She asked herself this question evening after evening.

It was late one night, and Lawrence as well as her father had been out ever since dinner. Mrs. Copley, weary and dispirited, had gone to bed. Dolly stood at the window looking out, not to see how the moonlight sparkled on the water and glanced on the vessels, but in a hopeless sort of expectancy watching for her father to come. The stream of passers-by had grown thin, and was growing thinner.

"Rupert," Dolly spoke after a long silence, "do you know where my father is?"

"Can't say I do. I could give a pretty fair guess, though, if you asked me."

"Could you take me to him?"

"Take you to him!" exclaimed the young man, starting.

"Can you find the way? Where is it?"

"I've been there often enough," said Rupert.

"What place is it?"

"The queerest place you ever saw. Do you recollect Mr. St. Leger telling us once about wine-shops in Venice? You and he were talking" —

"Yes, yes, I remember. Is it one of those? Not a café?"

"Not a café at all; neither a café nor a trattoria. Just a wine-shop. Nothing in it but wine casks, and the mugs or jugs of white and blue crockery that they draw the wine into; it's the most ridiculous place altogether I ever was in. I haven't been in it now, that's a fact."

"What were you there for so often, then?"

"Well," said Rupert, "I was looking after things."

"Drink wine and eat nothing!" said Dolly again. "Are there many people there?"

"Well, you can eat if you have a mind to; there are folks enough to sell you things; though they don't belong to the establishment. They come in from the street, with ever so many sorts of things, directly they see a customer sit down; fish and oysters, and cakes and fruit. But the shop sells nothing but wine. Mr. St. Leger says that is good."

"Not many people there?" Dolly asked again.

"No; not unless at a busy time. There won't be many there now, I guess."

"What makes you think my father is there?"

"I've seen him there pretty often," Rupert said in a low voice.

Dolly stood some minutes silent, thinking, and struggling with herself. When she turned to Rupert at the end of those minutes, her air was quite composed and her voice was clear and calm.

"Can you take me there, Rupert? Can you find the way?"

"I know it as well as the way to my mouth. You see, I didn't know but maybe – I couldn't tell what you might take a notion to want me to do; so I just practised, till I had got the ins and outs of the thing. And there are a good many ins and outs, I can tell you. But I know them."

"Then we will go," said Dolly. "I'll be ready in two minutes."

It was a brilliant moonlight night, as I said. Venice, the bride of the Adriatic, lay as if robed in silver for her wedding. The air was soft, late as the time of year was; Dolly had no need of any but a light wrap to protect her in her midnight expedition. Rupert called a gondola, and presently they were gliding along, as still as ghosts, under the shadow of bridges, past glistening palace fronts, again in the deep shade of a wall of buildings. Wherever the light struck it was like molten silver; façades and carvings stood sharply revealed; every beauty of the weird city seemed heightened and spiritualised; almost glorified; while the silence, the outward peace, gave still more the impression of a place fair-like and unreal. It was truly a wonderful sail, a marvellous passage through an enchanted city, never to be forgotten by either of the two young people; who went for some distance in a silence as if a spell were upon them too.

At Dolly's age, with all its elasticity, some aspects of trouble are more overwhelming than in later years. When one has not measured life, not learned yet the relations and proportions of things, one imagines the whole earth darkened by the cloud which is but hiding the sun from the spot where our feet stand. And before one has seen what wonders Time can do, the ruin wrought by an avalanche or a flood seems irreparable. It is inconceivable, that the bare and torn rocks should be clothed again, the choking piles of rubbish ever be anything but dismal and unsightly, the stripped fields ever be green and flourishing, or the torn-up trees be ever replaced. Yet Time does it all. Come after a while to look again, and the traces of past devastation are not easy to find; nature's weaving has so covered, and nature's embroidery has so adorned, the bald places. In human life there is something like this often done; though, as I said, youth wots not of it and does not believe in it. So Dolly this night saw her little life a wilderness, which had been a garden of flowers. Some flowers might be lifting their heads yet, but what Dolly looked at was the destruction. Wrought by her own father's hand! I cannot tell how that thought stung and crushed Dolly. What would anything else in the world have mattered, so she could have kept him? help could have been found; but to lose him, her father, and not by death, but by change, by dishonour, by loss of his identity – Dolly felt indeed that a storm had come upon the little garden of her life from the sweeping ruin of which there could be no revival. She could hardly hold her head up for a long distance of that midnight sail; yet she did, and noted as they passed the fairy glories of the scene. Just noted them, to deepen, if possible, the pangs at her heart. All this beauty, all this outward delight, mocked the inner reality; and made sharp the sense of it with the contrast of what might have been. As they went along, Venice became to her fancy a grave and monument of lost things, which floated together in her mind's vision. Past struggles for freedom, beaten back or faded out; vanished patriotism and art, with their champions; extinct ambitions and powers; historical glories evaporated, as it were, leaving only a scent upon the air; what was left at Venice but monuments? and like it now her own little life gone out and gone down! For so it seemed to Dolly. Even if she succeeded in her mission, and brought her father home, what safety, what security could she have? And if she did not bring him – then all was lost indeed. It was lost anyhow, she thought, as far as her own life was concerned. Her father could not be what he had been again. "O father! my father!" was poor Dolly's bitter cry, "if you had taken anything else from me, and only left me yourself!"

After a long time, when she spoke to Rupert, it was in a quiet, unaltered voice.

"Is this the shortest way, Rupert?"

"As like as not it's the longest. But, you see, it's the only way I know. I've always got there starting from the Place of St. Mark; and that way I know what I am about; but though I daresay there's a short cut home, I've never been it, and don't know it."

Dolly added no more.

"It's a bit of a walk from St. Mark's," Rupert went on. "Do you mind?"

"No," said Dolly, sighing. "Rupert, I wish you were a Christian friend! You are a good friend, but I wish you were a Christian!"

"Why just now?"

"Nobody else can give one comfort. You cannot, Rupert, with all the will in the world; there is no comfort in anything you could tell me. I have only one Christian friend on this side of the Atlantic; and that is Mrs. Jersey; and she might as well be in America too, where Aunt Hal is!"

Dolly was crying. It went to Rupert's heart.

"What could a Christian friend say to you?" he asked at length.

"Remind me of something, or of some words, that I ought to remember," said Dolly, still weeping.

"Of what?" said Rupert. "If you know, tell me. Remind yourself; that's as good as having some one else remind you. What comfort is there in religion for a great trouble? Is there any?"

"Yes," said Dolly.

"What then? Tell us, Miss Dolly. I may want it some time, as well as you."

"I suppose everybody is pretty sure to want it, some time in his life," said Dolly sadly, but trying to wipe away her tears.

"Let's have the comfort then," said Rupert, "if you've got it."

"Why, are you in trouble, Rupert?" she said, rousing up. "What about?"

"Never mind; let's have the comfort; that's the thing wanted just now. What would you say to me now if I wanted it pretty bad?"

"The trouble is, it is so hard to believe what God says," Dolly said, speaking half to herself and half to her companion.

"What does He say? Is it anything a fellow can take hold of and hold on to? I never could make out much by what I've heard folks tell; and I never heard much anyhow, to begin with."

"One of the things that are good to me," said Dolly, bowing her face on her hand, "is – that Jesus knows."

"Knows what?"

"All about it – everything – my trouble, and your trouble, if you have any."

"I don't see the comfort in that. If He knows, why don't He hinder? I suppose He can hinder?"

"He does hinder whatever would be real harm to His people; He has promised that."

"Well, ain't this real harm, that is worrying you?" said Rupert. "What do you call harm?"

"Pain and trouble are not always harm," said Dolly, "for His children often have them, I know; and no trouble seems sweet at the minute, but bitter; and the sweet fruits come afterward. Oh, it's so bitter now!" cried poor Dolly, unable to keep the tears back again; – "but He knows. He knows."