may shortly be accomplished; and yet how little we realize our own meaning, or live in accordance with the words we use.”
“You do not mean to say that we ought to be glad when our friends die?” inquired he.
“Partings for an indefinite time must always be painful, and those left behind to sorrow and struggle—to combat the waves of this troublesome world—must feel desolation and grief; but when we look at a quiet grave like this, where all is so calm and still, and think of the spirit away in some unknown but happy place, we ought not to feel gloom. Gloom might rest on the graves of those who call it ‘Ultima Domus’—but for us, who daily repeat our belief in ‘the resurrection of the dead,’ gloom ought to be banished with despair.”
“That is a very beautiful idea,” said he, looking with admiration at her elevated expression of countenance.
“It should be more than an idea—it should be a guiding principle; I mean that our business here is so to live that we may think of lying down there without a shudder. Do you know, I have often wondered what I shall feel—with what kind of emotions I shall look down—when they lay me there—or rather what once was myself.”
He looked at her with amazement. “Do you suppose you will be conscious at all?—but do not talk of it; I can not think of you in such a connection without more than a shudder. Did you train these creepers so gracefully round the church windows?”
“Partly; there have been other hands here besides mine, however; it has been the work of affection—the result of the very feelings of which I was speaking.”
“Which is your favorite?” inquired Mr. Huyton, determined to change the subject.
“Of the shrubs?—that Virginian creeper, I believe.”
“Why, it has no blossoms, and is not even an evergreen,” replied he.