but to read and to take dismal walks through Islington and Barnsbury,
and the gloom of the outlook thickened as the days became shorter and
the smoke began to darken the air. Madge was naturally more
oppressed than the others, not only by reason of her temperament, but
because she was the author of the trouble which had befallen them.
Her mother and Clara did everything to sustain and to cheer her.
They possessed the rare virtue of continuous tenderness. The love,
which with many is an inspiration, was with them their own selves,
from which they could not be separated; a harsh word could not
therefore escape from them. It was as impossible as that there
should be any failure in the pressure with which the rocks press
towards the earth's centre. Madge at times was very far gone in
melancholy. How different this thing looked when it was close at
hand; when she personally was to be the victim! She had read about
it in history, the surface of which it seemed scarcely to ripple; it
had been turned to music in some of her favourite poems and had lent
a charm to innumerable mythologies, but the actual fact was nothing
like the poetry or mythology, and threatened to ruin her own history
altogether. Nor would it be her own history solely, but more or less
that of her mother and sister.

Had she believed in the common creed, her attention would have been
concentrated on the salvation of her own soul; she would have found
her Redeemer and would have been comparatively at peace; she would
have acknowledged herself convicted of infinite sin, and hell would
have been opened before her, but above the sin and the hell she would
have seen the distinct image of the Mediator abolishing both.
Popular theology makes personal salvation of such immense importance
that, in comparison therewith, we lose sight of the consequences to
others of our misdeeds. The sense of cruel injustice to those who