The years that bring us
many ills, and that pass so stormfully over us, bear away with them the
ugliness, the weariness, the pain that are theirs, but the beauty, the
sweetness, the rest they leave untouched, for these are eternal. As
the mountains, that near at hand stand jagged and scarred, in the far
distance repose in their soft robes of purple haze, so the rough present
fades into the past, soft and sweet and beautiful.
I have set myself to recall the pain and anxiety of those days and
nights when we waited in fear for the turn of the fever, but I can only
think of the patience and gentleness and courage of her who stood beside
me, bearing more than half my burden. And while I can see the face
of Leslie Graeme, ghastly or flushed, and hear his low moaning or the
broken words of his delirium, I think chiefly of the bright face bending
over him, and of the cool, firm, swift-moving hands that soothed and
smoothed and rested, and the voice, like the soft song of a bird in the
twilight, that never failed to bring peace.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80