"We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia, thoughtfully.
"Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a night[[27]]—quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our own will—mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a breath of wind that crosses us—saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I am, and none else beside me'[[28]]—'Who is the Lord, that I should obey Him?'[[29]] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.'"[[30]]
Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence.
"Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but always as belonging to past time."
Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a little less calm than usual:
"There is no time, Madam, for her. She will never grow old, she will never suffer pain, she will never weep any more. The Master has been, and called for her."
"She is dead!" said Celia, sympathizingly.
"Dead? Nay, alive for evermore, as He is. 'Because He liveth, we shall live also.'[[31]] She is in the beatific vision, before the face of the Father, and shall never sin, nor suffer, nor depart any more. And we, here in this body of pain and sin, call them 'dead!' O Roswith! O my soul, my love, my darling! my wee bit bonnie bairn, sister and daughter in one, whom I loved as David Jonathan, as mine own soul! surely I am the dead, and thou art the living!"
Celia sat amazed at this sudden flow of passionate words from her usually imperturbable companion. She had seen her moved, only a short time before, but not like this. Patient bent her head low over her work, and did not look up for some minutes. When she spoke, it was to say, very softly:
"She never looked up rightly after the harrying of Lauchie. She lived, but she never laughed rightly again. The Doctor deemed that the ship wreck—the shock and the cold and the hunger—had wrought the ill. Maybe they had. But she never was a strong, likely lassie. She was ever gentle and quiet in all her ways, and could no bear much putting upon. And after that she just pined and wasted away. It was after Miss Magdalene died—after my Lady that is now was wedded—that the end came. It was one Sabbath afternoon, and I, poor fool! fancied her a wee bit better that day. She was lying on the bed in our chamber, and we had been cracking of divers things—of our Lord Christ and His resurrection, and that sweet prayer of His in John, and the like. Her voice was very low and soft—but it was ever that, I think—and her words came slowly and with pauses. And when we ended our crack, she saith, 'Patient, Sister! sing to me.' I asked her, 'What, dear heart?' and she saith, 'The Twenty-third Psalm.' So I sang: