"Do you believe it, my Ivan? Do you believe, in your heart of hearts, that Christ has burst the bonds of death, not for himself alone, but for all whom we love?"
"Yes; I believe in the resurrection of the just," said Ivan with trembling lips.
"Then why sorrow for our Czar as those that have no hope?"
"Do not speak to me, Clémence. I cannot bear it yet. My heart is breaking. Not so much because God has taken him from us, as because of all the darkness—all the seeming failure."
A still, calm smile passed over the quiet face of Clémence, kindling it with a radiance more than that of the morning. Ivan looked at her wondering. "What is it?" he asked, taking her hand and drawing her to a seat beside him.
"Christ is risen," she said again. "That word folds up within it all comfort, Ivan."
"I see no comfort now."
"You will see it soon, dearest. You will see that His resurrection from the dead—the ending of his bitter agony in endless joy—means the resurrection of all our hopes; and assures us for evermore that life, not death, joy not sorrow, fruition not failure, is his purpose for all who trust him."
"But how bitter the way!"
"Who thinks of the way when the end is won? Was the Master's own way an easy one, Ivan? Yet it is said, 'He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied.' And as the Master, so the servant."
"Satisfied?" Ivan repeated. "With what? Surely not with the results of his own work. I thought God meant him to do such great things, Clémence! Almost to bring in the earthly reign of righteousness and peace. And I believe he thought so too himself. It was the deepest longing of his heart. It was what he tried to do—tried and failed."
"Do you remember, Ivan, the day our little Alexander tried
