I did my best to make poor Bertie see this,—how completely he was himself free from blame in the matter; how entirely blame belonged to those who did know of the danger, and who omitted to warn others off.
"You mean that poor little Bessie was killed, because they didn't care?" he said.
"Yes, I mean that," I said, "for one side of the question. Only one side. There is another!"
He asked listlessly, "What side? I don't see it."
"Perhaps our Lord wanted little Bessie in Paradise," I said softly. "And perhaps it was better for her not to be left longer on earth."
"I don't see why," he murmured.
"No need that we should see why. We have not the settling of it," I said. "We know so little about the real reasons of things; or about the future of those we love. It is enough to trust the love and wisdom of our God. Even though some are to be blamed for her death, it may still be the very best and happiest thing for her to have been called Home so early."
"Wouldn't it be best for everybody, if you look at it in that way, mother?"
"No," I said; "certainly not. Not even though it is 'far better' to be 'with Christ,' and though Paradise is far better than earth. God has work for most of us here, and it is not good for us to go until that work is done. For some it may be that He has work there, and not here."
All this comes back to me with the help of a few written notes jotted down at the time. It has been a habit of mine to keep memoranda of certain conversations,—generally with my children only. If I had not done so, this talk, like many others, might have faded quite out of my memory.