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Updated: June 4, 2025
In this trouble more than ever Wingfold felt that if there was no God, his soul was but a thing of rags and patches out in the masterless pitiless storm and hail of a chaotic universe. Often would he rush into the dark, as it were, crying for God, and ever he would emerge therefrom with some tincture of the light, enough to keep him alive and send him to his work.
"That may be; there have always been more children than grown men," returned Bascombe. "For my part, I would sweep away all illusions, and get at the heart of the affair." "But," said Wingfold, with the look of one who, as he tries to say it, is seeing a thing for the first time, "does not the acorn-cup belong to the acorn?
Wingfold," said Polwarth one evening, the usual salutations over, taking what he commonly left to his friend the initiative, "I want to tell you something I don't wish even Rachel to hear." He led the way to his room, and the curate followed.
The first agonies of the encounter of life and death were over, and life was slowly wasting away. Oh what might not a little joy do for him! But where was the joy to be found that could irradiate such a darkness even for one fair memorial moment? One hot noon Wingfold lay beside him on the grass.
What a change had passed upon him! That day the New Testament had been the book of the church this day it was a fountain of living waters to the man Thomas Wingfold. He had not opened his Horace for six months. Great trouble he had had; both that and its results were precious.
"Who deserves any thing?" said the rector. "I less, I am sure, than any one I know. Only, if you will believe my curate, you have but to ask, and have what you need." "I wasn't the first to say that, sir," Wingfold struck in, turning his head over his shoulder. "I know that, my boy," answered Mr. Bevis; "but you were the first to make me want to find its true. I say, Mrs.
"Tell her," said Richard as they went, "if she should see Mr. Wingfold pass, to ask him to call at old Armour's smithy. She does not seem to remember me! Good day! I'm in a hurry!" He leaped into the pony-cart. "Barset!" he cried, and the same moment they were off at speed, for Simon saw something fresh was up. "Drive like Jehu," panted Richard. "Let's see what the blessed pony can do!
To Wingfold, however, it seemed that all things fell in to further his quest, which will not be so surprising if we remember that his was no intermittent repentant seeking, but the struggle of his whole energy. And there are those who, in their very first seeking of it, are nearer to the kingdom of heaven than many who have for years believed themselves of it.
Wingfold had been uttering one of his rambling monologues in which was much without form, but nothing void. "I don't know quite," he had been saying, "what to think about that story of the woman they brought to Jesus in the temple I mean how it got into that nook of the gospel of St. John, where it has no right place.
You will not be dragging her before the people; she has put herself there! She is brazen, and must be treated as brazen set in the full glare of opinion. And I think, if I were a clergyman, I should know how to do it!" Wingfold was silent. She must be right! Something glimmered before him something possible he could not see plainly what.
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