“Do not unearth your woes,—let the grave seal them. Your life stands waiting to be sanctified,—dedicated to Him who gave it. My dear friend,—
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‘Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it After His image: heal thyself; from grief Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.’” |
The sound of his voice, more than the import of his words, seemed to soothe her, for her eyes softened; but the effect was transitory, and presently she exclaimed,—
“Mere ‘sounding brass, and a tinkling cymbal!’ Pretty words, and musical; but empty as those polished shells yonder that echo only hollow strains of the never silent sea. Once, Dr. Grey,—”
She paused, and a shiver crept through her stately form; then she slowly continued, in a tone of indescribable pathos,—
“Once I could have listened to your counsel, for once my soul was full of holy aims, and my heart as redolent of pure Christian purposes as a June rose is of perfume; but now,—
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‘They are past as a slumber that passes, As the dew of a dawn of old time; More frail than the shadows on glasses, More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.’” |
Dr. Grey drew her arm through his, and silently led her to the house, and into the parlor. He noticed that her breathing was quick and short, and that she sank wearily upon the sofa, as if her strength had well-nigh failed her.
He untied her bonnet-strings and removed it, and she threw her head down on the silken cushion, as a spent child might have done.