“It is only that it partakes with the living,” I returned; “suffers with them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the shield of the Red-Cross Knight, the ‘old dints of deep wounds.’”
“Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?”
“The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it must not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is shrinking from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the land, high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven from all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse lie the bodies of men—you saw the grave of some of them on the other side—flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton imagines the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful ‘Lycidas.’” Then I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton at Kilkhaven. “But,” I went on, “these fancies are only the ghostly mists that hang about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall look down on all that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us that if we believe in him we shall never die.”
By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a description of what we had seen.
“What a brave old church!” said Connie.
The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of all to have a look at Connie’s litter, and see that it was quite sound. Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and strength.
After breakfast I went to Connie’s room, and told her that Mr. Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once.
“But we want to do it our own way.”
“Of course, papa,” she answered.
“Will you let us tie your eyes up?”