August 3.
The summer is sliding quietly away,--my desolate summer which I dreaded;
with the dreams gone from its wild flowers, the crown from its sunsets,
the thrill from its winds and its singing.
But I have found out a thing. One can live without dreams and crowns and
thrills.
I have not lost them. They lie under the ivied cross with Roy for a
little while. They will come back to me with him. “Nothing is lost,” she
teaches me. And until they come back, I see--for she shows me--fields
groaning under their white harvest, with laborers very few. Ruth
followed the sturdy reapers, gleaning a little. I, perhaps, can do as
much. The ways in which I must work seem so small and insignificant, so
pitifully trivial sometimes, that I do not even like to write them down
here. In fact, they are so small that, six months ago, I did not see
them at all. Only to be pleasant to old Phœbe, and charitable to
Meta Tripp, and faithful to my _not_ very interesting little scholars,
and a bit watchful of worn-out Mrs. Bland, and--But dear me, I won’t!
They _are_ so little!
But one’s self becomes of less importance, which seems to be the point.
It seems very strange to me sometimes, looking back to those desperate
winter days, what a change has come over my thoughts of Roy. Not that he
is any less--O, never any less to me. But it is almost as if she had
raised him from the grave. Why seek ye the living among the dead? Her
soft, compassionate eyes shine with the question every hour. And every
hour he is helping me,--ah, Roy, we understand one another now.
How he must love Aunt Winifred! How pleasant the days will be when we
can talk her over, and thank her together!
“To be happy because Roy is happy.” I remember how those first words of
hers struck me. It does not seem to me impossible, now.
* * * * *
Aunt Winifred and I laugh at each other for talking so much about
heaven. I see that the green book is filled with my questions and her
answers. The fact is, not that we do not talk as much about mundane
affairs as other people, but that this one thing interests us more.
If, instead, it had been flounces, or babies, or German philosophy, the
green book would have filled itself just as unconsciously with flounces,
or babies, or German philosophy. This interest in heaven is of course no
sign of especial piety in me, nor could people with young, warm,
uncrushed hopes throbbing through their days be expected to feel the
same. It is only the old principle of, where the treasure is--the heart.
“How spiritual-minded Mary has grown!” Mrs. Bland observes, regarding me
respectfully. I try in vain to laugh her out of the conviction. If Roy
had not gone before, I should think no more, probably, about the coming
life, than does the minister’s wife herself.
But now--I cannot help it--that is the reality, this the dream; that the
substance, this the shadow.
The other day Aunt Winifred and I had a talk which has been of more
value to me than all the rest.
Faith was in bed; it was a cold, rainy evening; we were secure from
callers; we lighted a few kindlers in the parlor grate; she rolled up
the easy-chair, and I took my cricket at her feet.
“Paul at the feet of Gamaliel! This is what I call comfort. Now, Auntie,
let us go to heaven awhile.”
“Very well. What do you want there now?”
I paused a moment, sobered by a thought that has been growing steadily
upon me of late.
“Something more, Aunt Winifred. All these other things are beautiful and
dear; but I believe I want--God.
“You have not said much about Him. The Bible says a great deal about
Him. You have given me the filling-up of heaven in all its pleasant
promise, but--I don’t know--there seems to be an outline wanting.”
She drew my hand up into hers, smiling.
“I have not done my painting by artistic methods, I know; but it was not
exactly accidental.
“Tell me, honestly,--is God more to you or less, a more distinct Being
or a more vague one, than He was six months ago? Is He, or is He not,
dearer to you now than then?”