“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and memories.”
“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?”
In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it.
“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I.
“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and important also that I should know it.”
“Then you still look for your father, my child?”
“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.”
“And meanwhile!”
“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am sure are of her whispering to my spirit.”
I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality, even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed.