They all scold me, and repeat with manifest
horror the terrible things I say, being unconscious that they are evil.
Why should I suspect thoughts that come to me naturally? I want to
know, to understand. I grope about in the dark. It seems to me
sometimes that this whole world is a mystery. I go to Mr. Wynkoop with
my questions, and they only seem to shock him. Why should they? God
must have put all these doubts and wonderings into my mind, and there
must be an answer for them somewhere. Mr. Wynkoop is a good man, I
truly respect him. I want to please him, and I admire his intellectual
attainments; but how can he accept so much on faith, and be content?
Do you really suppose he is content? Don't you think he ever questions
as I do? or has he actually succeeded in smothering every doubt? He
cannot answer what I ask him; he cannot make things clear. He just
pulls up a few, cheap, homely weeds,--useless common things,--when I
beg for flowers; he hands them to me, and bids me seek greater faith
through prayer. I know I am a perfect heathen,--Miss Spencer says I
am,--but do you think it is so awful for me to want to know these
things?"
He permitted his hand to drop upon hers, and she made no motion of
displeasure.
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