O calm grand eyes, extinguished in a storm,
Blown out like lights o’er melancholy seas,
Though shriek’d for by the shipwrecked.
O my dark!
My Cloud,—to go before me every day,
While I go ever toward the wilderness,
I would that you could see me bare to the soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
“Things went on very happily for a long time after this. The church at Sandycliffe was finished; Raby gave up his curacy, and read himself in; and then came the day when Margaret and I heard him preach.
“Shall I ever forget that day—it was Eastertide—and all that belonged to it? the last unclouded Sunday that was ever to rise upon me; the tiny flower-decked church already crowded with worshipers, the memorial window that Raby and Margaret had put in, sacred to the memory of their father, with its glorious colors reflected on the pavement in stains of ruby and violet; and lastly, the grave beautiful face of the young vicar as he looked round upon his little flock for the first time, his eyes resting for a moment as though in silent benediction on the vicarage seat.