“Then it would be better,” said his wife, tearfully, “if she had never been placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the pain of parting with her.”
“Not so, Mary,” said the cooper, seriously. “We ought to be grateful for God's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many hours have been made happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts have been filled with cheerful happiness and affection when we have gazed upon her! That can't be taken from us, even if she is, Mary. There's some lines I met with in the paper, to-night, that express just what I feel. Let me find them.”
The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which he read aloud,—
“I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.”
“There, wife,” said he, as he laid down the paper; “I don't know who writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow, and conquered it.”
“They are beautiful,” said his wife, after a pause; “and I dare say you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn the truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Ida will come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon.”
“At any rate,” said the cooper, “there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her mother insists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure, before we yield her up, that such is the case.”
“What do you mean, Timothy?” asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious interest.
“I don't know as I ought to mention it,” said her husband. “Very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious.”
“You have already aroused my anxiety,” said his wife. “I should feel better if you would tell me.”