“‘Will He’! Has He not been waiting to do it, ever since thou wert brought to Him in baptism?”
“But He can never fill up this void in my heart!”
“He could, my daughter. But I am not sure that He will, in this world. I rather think that He sees how weak thou art, and means to gather thee early into the warm shelter of His safe and happy fold.”
“Father, I feel as if I could not be happy, even in Heaven, if he were not there. I can long for the grave, because it will be rest and silence. But for active happiness, such as I suppose they have in Heaven,—Father, I do not want that; I could not bear it. I would rather stay on earth—where Richard is.”
“Poor child!” said Bruno half involuntarily. “My daughter, it is very natural. It must be so. ‘Where is thy treasure, there is also thine heart.’”
“And,” the low voice went on, “if I could know that he had given over loving me, I fancy it would be easier to go.”
Bruno thought it best rather to raise her thoughts out of that channel than to encourage them to flow in it.
“My child, Christ has not given over loving thee.”
“That does not seem real, like the other. And, O Father! He is not Richard!”
“Dear child, it is far more real: but thine heart is too sore to suffer thine eyes to see it. Dost thou not know that our Lord is saying to thee in this very sorrow, ‘Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest’?”