105 
A Meeting of Friends

Amanda did not go far.

She walked away from the church for five, perhaps six or seven minutes. Gradually aloneness overwhelmed her. Her heart began to ache with almost physical pain for sheer despondency.

Suddenly it dawned on her that except for the sisters at the Chalet of Hope, who were beyond reach at this moment, she had no one to turn to. She had only one true friend in the city, as much as at one time she thought she had despised him . . . and it was the very man behind her in New Hope Chapel to whom she had been listening.

The next instant Amanda had turned and was half running along the sidewalk back toward the church.

No logic of her mind could have explained whatever impulse compelled her feet along the walk. Her heart was suddenly so very lonely she thought it would break. The grief of her father’s death bore down upon her with a crushing weight of misery and desolation.

She did not think she could bear it another instant.

She needed a friend!

As Timothy Diggorsfeld stood at the door of New Hope Chapel shaking hands with the men and women of his congregation filing out in ones and twos, it was all he could do to maintain his composure. With near herculean effort he blinked back tears and did what he could to smile and mumble words of greeting. Officiating the service, then delivering the sermon his friend Charles had written had been an enormous personal ordeal.

But this was near agony! He was physically and emotionally spent.

If he could just get the last few minutes of the morning over, then he might seek the solitude of his study. There he could weep one more time for his friend.

The line was nearly done.

Wearily Timothy glanced up as he wished Mrs. Fretwell-Phipps a good day.

What was that figure down the block standing . . . watching him . . . just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk like a lost, forlorn human sheep!

Suddenly he was stumbling down the stairs, leaving the remaining six or seven in line where they stood in the foyer of the chapel. He bumped past Mrs. Fretwell-Phipps on the steps leaving the church.

He was running now . . . running as fast as he had run for years along Bloomsbury Way, presenting a sight such as those wide-eyed of his congregation could never have imagined, black Sunday robe flying out behind their normally sedate clergyman!

The lost sheep began running toward him.

Timothy slowed, tears of so many emotions he could not have counted them streaming down his cheeks. He opened his arms.

“Amanda!” he said tenderly.

She fell into his embrace, trembling and clinging to him like a frightened child who has found its mother. At last the gushing torrent of grief overflowed its dam, and she sobbed convulsively.

Back at the church, what remained of Timothy’s parishioners continued to watch the strange display. Not one had any inkling that the young lady in their minister’s arms was none other than the prodigal daughter of him whose words they had just been listening to.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” sobbed Amanda.

Timothy held her close for what may have been one minute, perhaps two.

“You cannot imagine how glad I am you came to me,” now said Timothy, stepping back and smiling. “I cannot say it makes me happy, for I doubt anything at this moment is capable of that. My heart is grievously sore. But I am very glad you came.”

Amanda wiped at her tears, then, to the extent she was able, returned his smile.

“Amanda . . . I am so sorry about your father and brother.”

She nodded and began to cry again.

“Come . . . come inside with me,” said Timothy. “We will have a talk.”

He turned and led the way back toward the church. “We have both lost a friend,” he said. “Now we shall have to be friends to one another.”

They met the astonished lady as they passed yet again on the walkway. “All is well . . . all is well, Mrs. Fretwell-Phipps,” said Timothy with a smile and a nod.

They walked up the steps. Timothy paused briefly to hurriedly shake the remaining hands, then led Amanda inside and to the adjoining parsonage.