“Do not,” said she, “make me weep. Dry your tears and let us talk together.” He endeavored to obey her request.
“Have you suffered much since I saw you?”
“Not much physical pain.” She did not say how much she had suffered when the darkness first fell upon all her prospects and hopes of life. She did not tell him how much she had suffered in view of the anguish which her early death would give to her friends, and most of all to him.
“How can it be,” said he, as though speaking to himself.
“It can, and must be,” said she, with entire composure, “and there is one thought connected with this dispensation, which does more than all other things relating to earth, to reconcile me to it.”
“Nothing can reconcile me to it”—said he, in a manner indicating disapprobation of the expression she had used.
“You surely would not have me like the imprisoned bird which wounds itself against the bars of its prison?”
“Oh no, I was selfish in the remark. I was thinking only of myself.”
“No, Willard, you shall not do yourself injustice, you were thinking of me. But the thought I alluded to is this—all your hopes have had reference to this world. They have not reached beyond the horizon of time. You have loved me as I do not deserve to be loved. I know and appreciate the depth of your love. The loss of your idol may cause you to take off your thoughts from the earth, and fix them on an enduring portion. If my death could be the means of your spiritual life, I think, solemn and awful as is the change which it brings, I could willingly meet it. And will it not have that effect? When I am gone will you not seek a better portion—even an heavenly?”
“When you are gone life will be utterly valueless to me.”