'The storm blows from that point,' I said, indicating it with my hand and
eye, although the window shutters and curtains were closed. 'I saw all the
trees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood,
where my darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like
this, to think of them--a vault!--damp, and dark, and solitary--under the
storm.'
Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sigh
she said--
'We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit which
lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.' And she sighed again. 'I wish
I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such
materialists, we can't help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us
that our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for a
time and place of trouble--plainly mere temporary machines that wear out,
constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity
for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought, for it is plainly its good
Creator's will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed
upon after death, Saint Paul says, "with a house which is from heaven.
Pages:
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271