The day wore slowly on, but it seemed just like twenty days which had preceded it. Bruno paid his daily visit towards evening.
“Are the streets very full of holiday-makers?” asked Margaret.
“Very full, my daughter. There is a great crowd round the May-pole.”
“I hope Eva will enjoy herself.”
“I have no doubt she will.”
“It seems so far off, now,” said Margaret, dreamily. “As if I were where I could hardly see it—somewhere above this world, and all the things that are in the world. Father, have you any idea what there will be in Heaven?”
“There will be Christ,” answered Bruno. “And what may be implied in ‘His glory, which God hath given Him,’—our finite minds are scarcely capable of guessing. Only, His will is that His people shall behold it and share it. It must be something that He thinks worth seeing—He, who has beheld the glory of God before the worlds were.”
“Father,” said Margaret, with deep feeling, “it seems too much that we should see it.”
“True. But not too much that He should bestow it. He gives,—as He forgives—like a king.”
Like what king?—was the thought in Doucebelle’s mind. Not like the one of whom she knew any thing—who was responsible before God for that death which was coming on so quietly, yet so surely.