_There was once a blind, crippled, helpless hulk of humanity
who had a sister. And such a sister! All the women who ever
wrote books, or painted pictures, or spoke or sang to gaping
crowds, weren’t worth her little finger. At least, so he
thought—this selfish fellow—and with good reason. For he owed
it to her that life was not a burden; rather, he owed it to her
that life was a pleasure. Ah, what could she have done that
she did not do for him? Like a good fairy she hovered about
him, studying and scheming for his comfort and diversion from
morning till night. Would he be read to? She would read to him
by the hour. Did some rhyme or foolish fancy escape him? She
was only too eager to preserve it. She was eyes for him, she
was his good right hand, she was everything! Ah, how unmindful
of self, how thoughtful of him always! even striving to forget
some sorrows of her own, lest her sadness might make him sad!
And now that he is gone, and she has nothing to regret—not
one impatient word or act—and to remember only unwearied,
loving care, ceaseless devotion, let her be comforted. Surely
“she hath done what she could.” Oh, my sister, my sister, be
comforted! and let us dare hope that of those who watch over
thee, unseen, he who writes this may be one._
Daylight slowly fades from the wintry sky, the firelight flickers up and
down the wall, and, as night descends, little Edith falls to sleep in
Kate’s arms. But are these two alone? For though there is seen no shape
among the shadows, nor is heard the sound of any voice, what is that
something that like a radiance suddenly overspreads the bowed face? “The
peace which passeth all understanding.”