“They get out of the abyss too; but they have to struggle out alone. Their condition must depend much on what they were before the conflict befell them. Some are soured, and live restlessly. Some are weak, and come out worldly, and sacrifice themselves, in marriage or otherwise, for low objects. Some strive to forget, and to become as like as possible to what they were before; and of this order are many of the women whom we meet, whose minds are in a state of perpetual and incurable infancy. It is difficult to see the purpose of their suffering, from any effects it appears to have produced: but then there is the hope that their griefs were not of the deepest.”
“And what of those whose griefs are of the deepest?”
“They rise the highest above them. Some of these must be content with having learned more or less of what life is, and of what it is for, and with reconciling themselves to its objects and conditions.”
“In short, with being philosophical,” said Margaret, with an inquiring and affectionate glance at her friend.
“With being philosophical,” Maria smilingly agreed. “Others, of a happier nature, to whom philosophy and religion come as one, and are welcomed by energies not wholly destroyed, and affections not altogether crushed, are strong in the new strength which they have found, with hearts as wide as the universe, and spirits the gayest of the gay.”
“You never told me anything of all this before,” said Margaret; “yet it is plain that you must have thought much about it—that it must have been long in your mind.”
“It has; and I tell it to you, that you may share what I have learned, instead of going without the knowledge, or, alas! gathering it up for yourself.”
“Oh, then, it is so—it is from your own—”
“It is from my own experience that I speak,” said Maria, without looking up. “And now, there is some one in the world who knows it beside myself.”
“I hope you do not—I hope you never will repent having told me,” said Margaret, rising and taking her seat on the sofa, beside her friend.