“But how am I to help it?” repeated the poor Countess.
“You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going.”
“Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every penny and every jewel that I have!”
“Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than you.”
“Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!”
“He has died for her,” answered Bruno, softly. “And He is the Amen, the Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head of every child of His.”
“But where will she be?—what will she be?” moaned the poor mother.
“If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him.”
“But He does not need her, and I do!”
“Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest. But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early. It is far better.”