I often wept during those days. Night
and morning my pillow was wet. But they
were quiet, penitent, resigned tears, sad and
yet sweet and blessed tears.

If wild regret for that dread and sinful
past essayed to destroy my new peace, to lash
my soul into tumultuous unrest, I knew now
how to still the troubled waters; if my spirit
failed me sometimes, and my heart quailed
and sickened as I imagined what might be
the poor forlornness, and the ceaseless longing,
and the ever-failing endeavour of my
future—yet I could, even then, pray; and
having prayed, could look down pityingly
on my heart's trouble, and yet control its
emotions.

I began to have some dim idea, some, not
knowledge, but imagination, of what it would be to
be able, in all scenes, trials, dangers,
distresses, temptations, and pains of life, to
be calm enough to feel that round all our
restlessness flows "God's rest!" to be able to
merge all hopes, fears, doubts, and dreads, in
a perfect, unfailing trust in Him who makes
all things work together for good to those
who believe in Him.

CHAPTER VII.

The breath of autumn seemed to
breathe upon, and sanctify as it saddened,
the glowing beauty of the land; and nature
appeared to sympathise with the sweet,
patient soberness and penitence that softened
my soul.

It was just the weather for my Lily, too—
mild and still, with no fierce summer heat:
she and I grew stronger together.

We very often sat long in the churchyard
by little Harold's grave. It was generally
there that Mr. Morton talked with us. In
that churchyard lay the dust of all those
who had been dearest to him on earth; so
the spot was as sacred to him as it grew to be
to us.

We went there alone one day—Lily and I.
It was rather late in the afternoon. I did
not mean to stay long, but it was so very
serenely and perfectly lovely there that day.

I sat down, and took Lily on my lap. She
was playing with a handful of wild weeds
and flowers, and singing, as her custom was,
very softly to herself. I had my arms round
her, and rested my cheek on her soft hair—
it was just as I had held her so long ago.
But where was the bright boy, who had
leaned against my knee and fixed his large
blue eyes so earnestly on my face?

I looked out over the sea, far into the
hazy distance, and slow tears dropped down
one by one. The sea and the sky were all
one colour, a soft greyish blue. On the sea
there were no billows, in the sky no clouds;
there was no wind to stir wave or cloud,
or the black boughs of the large yew under
which I sat: there was only a great and
gentle peace—a perfect stillness over all.
And was there peace in my heart?

Those slow heavy-falling tears came down
one by one, and yet I hardly knew I wept,
till, passing my hand over her head, I found
my child's hair wet. I was not thinking of
the past—I could not bear to do that yet; I
was looking forward to an atoning future—a
future of active and patient doing and
bearing.

Clasping my fair child, I thanked Him fervently
for His long-suffering kindness—
thanked Him most of all for this life that
lay before me. Thinking of these things,
peace did come to my heart. Resolving to
live a life out of self; to live for others, to
care for others, and, for myself, only to rest
on God's mercy; I began for the first time in
my life to know what peace of mind was. O,
the blessed hours of that afternoon!

I sat facing the sinking sun; it seemed as
if the haziness of the horizon would quench
his beams, and as if he would sink without
leaving any light and glory in the west. But
the sky brightened afterwards.

The little gate of the churchyard was just
behind me.

Lily turned on my lap to peep round my
shoulder, when the latch was lifted with a
sharp click.

My arms fell from round her—I trembled
so with indefinite expectation. For a
moment she was still; then she darted away
from me with that old cry, "Papa—papa!"

I had not dared turn—I did not now. I
rose, sick and agitated; the golden sunlight
bewildered me, and I drew back into the
black shadow, and leaned against the old yew-tree.
As its large stem interposed between
my poor eyes and the setting sun, I thought
of the shadow that had passed between me
and the sinking moon as I rose from my
knees that night in the garden. For the first
time, I knew that it had been Harold's. He
had seen me, then, in sorrow, endeavouring to
pray, and had gone away without one word!
I leaned back very faint. Was this my
strength, my patience, my faith?

So near, and yet so far! The pain was
very sharp. Would not my poor heart
burst? It longed so earnestly, so wildly, for
his forgiveness, his kindness, his pity—it
dared not hope for his love.

I could see nothing from where I stood,
between the old tree and the church wall;
but I heard a sound—the churchyard gate
shut hastily, and then the noise of retreating
footsteps. With Lily in his arms, he had
gone away, then! He had come only to see
her—there was no thought for me!

I sank down then. I could reach to lay
my head on the little mound of my boy's
grave; and I thought my heart would beat
its last there. If, forgetting my task undone,
for a moment I cried, "O, would that I
were dead!" Thou has forgiven me, oh, Thou
infinitely kind Father! for Thou hast
patience with us, remembering that we are but
dust.