That blowing wind,
which he could not see, neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither
it was going, began to blow together his soul and those of his parents;
the love in his father and in his mother drew him; the memories of his
childhood drew him; for the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it
had been from the first, only now first he began to feel its drawing; and
as he yielded to that drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more
strongly; until at last--I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he
made the soul of James Blatherwick different from what it had been--but at
last it grew capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love
because he could not help it; then he willed to love because he could
love; then, become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went
on to love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become
--or perish.
But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment and
horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his soul
as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to sleep
and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then wake and
know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was alive; that
love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that now indeed
it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now life was
possible, because life was to love, and love was to live.
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