'I suppose there must have been,' she murmured, steadying
herself. 'He came to me just at sunrise,' she said, 'this
sunrise, this very morning. I saw him so plainly coming into the
room just after I had opened my eyes. He always said he was sure
he would be able to come, by God's mercy, if it should come to
that . . .' Her voice shook, and I knew what 'that' meant.
No doubt they had loved one another very dearly, no doubt he had
been able, so strong was his affection, to follow my journey
towards her, while he was still in life. Then, at the moment of
the great change, he had doubtless gathered strength to come to
her and manifest himself. Such things have surely happened
before, and are likely to happen again whilst our lives linger in
the midst of death, and love is love.
'It is just on church-time,' she said, 'all but eight o'clock. I
was getting ready to go when you knocked. You won't mind my going
now, will you? You won't mind my saying Good-bye?'
So we said 'Good-bye' outside the church door, our ways went so
far together. Then I went off by the station road; my train was
to go on in another hour or so.
When I got into an empty carriage I was conscious of some sense
of forlornness. I had lost my traveling companion. Yet I was glad
somehow to think that the strain of his interest in my journey
was at an end. I gave thanks for that new rest of his.
As for her I am glad to remember where it was that she parted
from me so graciously. That church was a poor, corrugated iron
structure, but I looked in and saw a gladsome light burning
before its altar. Her eyes were on that light, I think, as she
knelt down. Truly a sanctuary of God seemed the place of places
to leave her in. They were so desperately fond of one another,
and he was so devoted to his religion, as well as to her. If in
God's sanctuary the Psalmist found most satisfaction as to his
own riddle of the ungodly's vitality, I feel sure she found some
comfortable answer to her own contrasted problem the mortality of
one so dear to her and to his Lord.