The fact is, pussy,
mamma is tired. Life to you is gay and joyous, but to mamma it has
been a battle in which the spirit is willing but the flesh weak, and
she would be glad, like the woman in the St. Bernard, to lie down with
her arms around the wayside cross, and sleep away into a brighter
scene. Henry's fair, sweet face looks down upon me now and then from
out a cloud, and I feel again all the bitterness of the eternal "No"
which says I must never, never, in this life, see that face, lean on
that arm, hear that voice. Not that my faith in God in the least
fails, and that I do not believe that all this is for good. I do, and
though not happy, I am blessed. Weak, weary as I am, I rest on Jesus
in the innermost depth of my soul, and am quite sure that there is
coming an inconceivable hour of beauty and glory when I shall regain
Jesus, and he will give me back my beloved one, whom he is educating
in a far higher sphere than I proposed. So do not mistake me,--only
know that mamma is sitting weary by the wayside, feeling weak and
worn, but in no sense discouraged.
Your affectionate mother, H. B. S.
So is it ever: when with bold step we press our way into the holy
place where genius hath wrought, we find it to be a place of sorrows.
Art has its Gethsemane and its Calvary as well as religion. Our best
loved books and sweetest songs are those "that tell of saddest
thought.
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