The mother just now in all the prime of womanhood, in her
glorious beauty, was cold, and white, and silent, and on her arm lay the tiny marble face of that little being, whose entrance to this world had cost his parents such a price, and whose stay had been so short, that you wondered why he came at all.
On Hilary devolved the task of making her young sisters acquainted with their loss; of communicating to them the sad change that one night had occasioned; for this, when all was over, and her father had withdrawn to the solitude of his own study, she crept softly to their sleeping apartment, and sitting down beside the bed, watched patiently and silently for their first awaking.
Her grief was very quiet, although very deep. In idea she tried to follow the departed, and to realize what she now was, so far as mortal fancy might paint it; and the glad, solemn, mysterious thought, that that dear one had felt her last grief, suffered her last pain, heaved her last sigh forever, made it seem even a profanation to indulge regret. It was when she permitted her thoughts to anticipate, that she shuddered and mourned; it was the future for herself, her sisters, her father, which made her tremble. How barren and blank it seemed; the sweet voice which had taught and soothed her, silent now; the bright smile vanished forever; the sunshine of the house gone; who would fill her place? Could it be that she so young, so simple, so inexperienced, that she should be called on to attempt this heavy duty? did it devolve on her to soothe, instruct, watch over her sisters, to think for the household, to comfort her bereaved father, assist in lightening his cares, or sharing his anxieties? She had told her such would be her duty—had bid her reflect on the responsibilities laid on her; had warned, encouraged, and comforted her—and as she had spoken so, Hilary had felt strong and trustful; but now—oh! how miserably weak, ignorant, helpless, and deficient she appeared to herself; the memory of all her own girlish faults, indolence, thoughtlessness, ignorance, selfish indulgences, idle ways, all the many failings for which she daily judged and condemned herself, rose up in her mind, and seemed to say, “impossible;” seemed to whisper
to her that her task was harder than she could endure; that such a life of carefulness and watching, and thought for others, and denial of self, as her mother had depicted for her, could not be expected of one so young; it would wither her youth, and blight her spirit, and darken all the gay happiness which ought to be hers!
Nay, but it was her duty! it was God’s will, and as such, it could not be too hard; her burden would not be greater than she could bear; more would not be expected of her than she would have power to perform; could she but fix her eyes aright, and draw strength from the Source of everlasting strength, she should not find it fail; weak, trembling, insufficient as she was, she need not fear, if she only trusted all to Him, and nothing to herself. And then a voice seemed to whisper to her heart,
“Child of my love, how have I wearied thee,
Why wilt thou err from me?”
and half unconsciously she repeated to herself the succeeding lines of the same hymn; there was soothing in the thought.
Yet ever and again, as she grew calmer, came rushing in the painful memory of her loss; and while she doubted not the wisdom and mercy which had ordered all, and accepted meekly the burden of care which seemed laid on her, her heart ached in bitterness when she remembered what had been, and what was.