“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would answer me.”
“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.”
“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to consider the subject so deeply?”
“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply.
“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I.
“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much, with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo came to us, did I at all understand myself.”
“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I asked.
“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.”
“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the bloom of life.”
“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts.