by Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened
sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to
become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lot
now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the
weakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again to
share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his
cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements,
and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer,
autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all the
gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health and
strength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, I
would joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all I
have written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in short
he must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly
and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his
own sincere communings with conscience.

Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie's
assurance, "You may have God for your friend," and something of this he
told Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had but
little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more
than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull
him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him who
loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out
of his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and he
meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something
of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he
had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that God
should love _him_.