“All things are pardoned to great grief,” replied Murjânah. “It was not thy fault, O poor one! Would to Allah I could show thee what I see more clearly than I see thee in this room⁠—the power of God, His mercy all around us. Fain would I hear thee give Him praise for thy misfortune. He sees and knows; we fancy; it is weak to strive. Think, O my fawn, my lily, thou hast still one child; thou hadst thy boy for thy delight for fifteen years. More fortunate than I who lost all mine in infancy! What peace can come to woman in thy case who does not offer up her will to God? The men have promise of a certain paradise; we have no certitude of what awaits us. Yet are we not dejected, for we know God’s mercy, and leave the future gladly in His hands. We women are not bargainers, we serve for love; and the mercy of the Highest cannot fail. Thou hast been brought up otherwise to prouder thoughts. Humble thy soul if thou wouldst find relief.”

“I proud?” cried Barakah. “Thou, the proudest woman I have ever known, canst call me so? I am not as thou art⁠—strong and dauntless, cruel in thy resignation. I am feeble and afraid.”