We are wicked, very wicked.

That is the comfort we get.

Wicked! Oh, Lord! do we not know it?
Is it not the sense of our own exceeding wickedness that is drying up our young heart, filling it with sand, making all life a dust-bin for us?
Wicked?
We know it! Too vile to live, too vile to die, too vile to creep over this, God's earth, and move among His believing men.

Hell is the one place for him who hates his master, and there we do not want to go.
This is the comfort we get from the old.
And once again we try to seek for comfort.

This time great eyes look at us wondering, and lovely little lips say: "If it makes you so unhappy to think of these things, why do you not think of something else, and forget ?" Forget! We turn away and shrink into ourself.