Now the mother is indeed anxious. And I, though I conceal this from her, find my fears strangely active. Something like instinct guides me to the meadow; I wander down the brook-side, calling—Paul—Paul! But there is no answer.
All the afternoon we search, and the neighbors search; but it is a fruitless toil. There is no joy that evening; the meal passes in silence; only little Carry, with tears in her eyes, asks—if Paul will soon come back? All the night we search and call—the mother even braving the night air, and running here and there, until the morning finds us sad and despairing.
That day—the next—cleared up the mystery, but cleared it up with darkness. Poor little Paul!—he has sunk under the murderous eddies of the brook! His boyish prattle, his rosy smiles, his artless talk, are lost to us forever!
I will not tell how nor when we found him, nor will I tell of our desolate home, and of her grief—the first crushing grief of her life.
The cottage is still. The servants glide noiseless, as if they might startle the poor little sleeper. The house seems cold—very cold. Yet it is summer weather; and the south breeze plays softly along the meadow and softly over the murderous eddies of the brook.
Then comes the hush of burial. The kind mourners are there; it is easy for them to mourn! The good clergyman prays by the bier: “Oh, Thou, who didst take upon Thyself human woe, and drank deep of every pang in life, let Thy spirit come and heal this grief, and guide toward that better Land, where justice and love shall reign, and hearts laden with anguish shall rest for evermore!”
Weeks roll on, and a smile of resignation lights up the saddened features of the mother. Those dark mourning robes speak to the heart deeper and more tenderly than ever the bridal costume. She lightens the weight of your grief by her sweet words of resignation: “Paul,” she says, “God has taken our boy!”
Other weeks roll on. Joys are still left—great and ripe joys. The cottage smiling in the autumn sunshine is there; the birds are in the forest boughs; Jamie and little Carry are there; and she, who is more than them all, is cheerful and content. Heaven has taught us that the brightest future has its clouds—that this life is a motley of lights and shadows. And as we look upon the world around us, and upon the thousand forms of human misery, there is a gladness in our deep thanksgiving.