She was no longer glad that the child had not lived. There had been a time when she had hoped for that very thing, but when her wish was realized, came pangs of conscience that destroyed her relief at its fulfilment. She no longer thought of what her life might have been had the child lived; she forgot that she had ever feared its birth; she had no feeling now but sorrow for its death, and remorse that she had wished for it.
Often old Kata would come to the churchyard to fetch her, gently reproaching her for staying there so long.
“’Tis no good to let all the sad thoughts stay in your mind. There’s life to be lived; you must not go wandering off among the dead so.”
And Alma would answer with a listless smile. One day she asked:
“Do you think, Kata, that there really is any life in the world?”
“Ay, indeed, there is. And if the Lord takes one joy from us, surely He will give something else in its place.”
“I am not complaining,” Alma replied. “I have never complained. But I have seen heavy crosses laid on weak shoulders.”
“They that seem weak can often bear the heaviest burden. ’Tis a sorrowful world, but, after all, ’tis only a moment in eternity. And maybe we’re only here to be tried in the fire, with trouble and affliction, and the ones that suffer most are those God loves the best. As if He was taking special pains with them, so they could be sooner ready to come to Him.”
One day, as Alma and Kata were standing in the churchyard, two ravens flew by. They flew over the church, and old Kata eyed them anxiously, making the sign of the cross.
Then, in a trembling voice, she said: