To think of thee in thy forsaken rest;
If from my heart be lifted the despair,
The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd,
It is that Thou the sacrifice hast bless'd,
And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell
With a deep, chastened sense that all at last is well."
John Grayson had been directed by Miss Celandine to go to the parlour where Shushan had bidden him farewell, and to wait for her there. It looked as if it had had many occupants since, and as if some of them were still in possession. Yet for the moment he was alone, a thing unusual in that crowded house. His heart was filled with a sense of unspeakable rest;—and, after rest, came thankfulness;—and with thankfulness a fresh burst of weeping, his tears growing ever gentler, ever softer and more full of healing.
In those blessed tears he found again his hope and his God. Christ was no dream, but a living, loving Power, strong to save. He had been with his beloved one, and had delivered her. Once more, in the darkness, his hand touched that right Hand, so strong and so tender, which at once upholds the universe, and supports the failing heart of every tried and tempted "wrestler with the Spirit until the breaking of the day."
So already the cross of Christ, laid upon both their heads, had been taken from Shushan's young brow, and she had received instead of it the crown of life! While he—who loved her, who would love her until his life's end—he had to bear it still. But it was the cross of Christ, and not the brand of Cain. Not that. Never that again! Never more would he wander aimlessly amidst the dying and the dead,—
"Beating in upon his weary brain,