“I can’t but remember the woman’s rough strength.”
“To me the all-controlling love of Rizpah for her children condones her former errings, her Philistine ancestry, her craggedness. I believe she soars with the angels now, and to Israel she must be a pattern until some more saintly and finer woman arises to take the leadership of woman.”
“Will such an one appear, mother?”
“God’s dial is a circle, with a sweep like eternity. He knows no hurry; yet, though never weary, is never belated. We are not waiting for him, but He is for us. When man is ready to take up his pilgrim march to the highlands of a living, all light, all beautiful, there’ll be beacons and beacons from the valleys to the hills.”
Just then the lamp by which they had been sitting, for some time having only flickered, was suddenly quenched, and there was a sound of the fluttering of wings in the room. Miriamne screamed and clung to her mother, her thoughts on the vultures of the picture.
“’Twas only a bat, daughter!”
“Oh, this ghostly place!” the young woman cried.
“Ghosts and bats are very harmless; would men were like them!” bitterly spoke Rizpah.
“A bat putting out our light; it’s like an omen!”
“Yes, wrongs do put out the light of human joy, but only for a little while; look out to the firmament, my clinging other self, as I do, for comfort by times. See, the stars are immovable; all bright and in seemingly everlasting calm. Never forget in any long trial, or sudden terror, that when our human-made lights expire we are to turn our eyes toward heaven. In truth, God Himself often quenches our lights to make us look up to His.” The mother, approaching the stone casement, and looking out on the sky, continued: “The heavens are full of beacons and lamps. They shall light us to bed as His truth lights those who will to serene, long rest. Good night, my child.”