But oh,
how strangely my thoughts come back from every one--everything to
that dear saint who sacrificed herself for me to-day.--And yet I'm
leaving her, I'm leaving all. Whither am I going? It's all dark,
DARK; vague and dreary. Oh, that I had her simple faith! Whether
true or no it would be an infinite comfort now. What did she
say?--'I've found a Friend pledged to take care of me.' That is
all I would ask. I would not be afraid to go out into this great
universe if I only had such a Friend as she believes in, waiting
to receive me. Who cares how strange a place may be if a loved
friend meets and greets us. But to go alone, and away from so much
to which my heart clings--oh, it is awful! awful!---
"A man can't die, ought not to die, like a stupid beast unless he
is a beast only; nor should death drag us like trembling captives
from the shores of time. And yet I must do one of three things:
either wait helplessly and in trembling expectancy, or take cousel
of pride, and stubbornly and sullenly meet the future, or else
appeal to Ida's Friend. It seems mean business to do the last now
in my extremity, but I well know that Ida would counsel it, and
by reaching her Friend I may at some time in the future reach her
again.
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