“That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same thing over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing again.”
“But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I forget it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them fast in my memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as they fade out of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my mind and leave it as if they had never been there—except perhaps two or three. Now, though I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked about it, I shall never forget it.”
“It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have their influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory—in your very being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is only an idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence than we have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and attention you gave it when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie to see how you are.—I’ve been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my love.”
“O, thank you, papa—I shall be so glad of some tea!” said Wynnie, the paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more plainly. She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the better for it.
The same moment my wife came in. “Why didn’t you send for me, Harry, to get your tea?” she said.
“I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and seasons. But I knew you must be busy.”
“I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the unpacking, and twenty different things,” said Ethelwyn. “We shall be so comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?”
“Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life,” returned Wynnie. “You would think the shore had been built for the sake of the show—just for a platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be rather dangerous for the children.”
“I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see something of the colours on the water, but not much more.”
“O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in winter,” said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if not apprehensive.