Harvey’s answer was very slow in coming. Finally he reached out and took his sister’s hand; the words rang hopefully.
"I feel somehow, I don’t know why, Jessie, but I feel somehow as if I were just at the turning of the tide. Nobody’ll ever know what a fearful fight it’s been—but I don’t think I’ll have to struggle like this much longer. It’s like fighting in the waves for your life—but I think it’s nearly over. I don’t want you to go home again for a little, Jessie."
"What do you mean, Harvey? Do you mean anything particular’s going to happen?"
He hesitated. "I don’t know—but I think so. I’ve always had a feeling to-morrow’d be a better day than yesterday. I’ve always felt as if something lay beyond; and when I reached it—and passed it, everything would be different then."
There are few who know it—but the uncertainty of life is life’s greatest stimulus. That is, the sense of further possibilities, unexpected happenings, developments not to be foreseen. This is true of the poor, the enslaved, the broken-hearted; it is no less true of the caressed of fortune and the favourites of fate. The veil that hides to-morrow’s face is life’s chiefesf source of zest, not excepting love itself. Men’s hearts would break if they could descry the plain beyond and search its level surface to the end; wherefore the All-wise has broken the long way to fragments, every turn in the road, the long, winding road, a well-spring of hope and expectation. The most dejected heart, proclaim its hopelessness as it may, still cherishes a secret confidence that things cannot always thus remain; downcast and tear-bedimmed, those eyes are still turned towards the morrow, or the morning, or the spring-time—for by such different symbols God would teach us how ill He brooks monotony.
Especially is this true of one who struggles with his sin. Beaten again and again, vows turned to shame and resolutions to reproach, conscience and will trodden under foot of appetite, the wearied warrior still trusts that to-morrow will turn the battle from the gate. Something will turn up; if he could but get a fresh start, or if he could escape from boon companions, or if he were once braced up a bit, or if this did not worry and that beset—all these varied tones does Hope’s indomitable voice assume. Sad and pitiful enough, we say; and we smile at what we call the weakness of poor humanity—but it all bears witness to that hopeful anguish which is bred of manifold temptations; it is the earnest expectation of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of God.