HOW THEY ARE BROKEN.
n all friendships which ultimately cease to exist there comes the point of departure as in the capital letter Y; the point where the two before united friends separate and continue their lives in different directions.
At first the division between them is a very narrow one, but it widens and stretches out till the two wholly lose sight of each other. Of this I have already spoken as the drifting apart of friends; the gradual cooling of once warm friendship.
But it has another kind of conclusion as abrupt and final as the termination of the capital letter I, of which no continuance is possible.
It was difficult in the first instance to say just where the separation between the friends began, but here there can be no mistake, and very often not only the girls themselves but their relations and acquaintances know that there has been a quarrel.
The letters and meetings do not become shorter and fewer, they cease; or if circumstances do not allow of this—for their respective families do not necessarily quarrel too—they become noticeably forced and frigid, and, if possible, avoided. There is a sore feeling on both sides which those who tranquilly drifted apart never experienced. The friendship has broken off short, as it were, there has been no period of preparation for this sudden issue, and both girls are wounded; though whether it be in their affection, dignity, or self-love, the cause of estrangement and character of each must determine.
It is impossible to sever all at once the many links which bind friend and friend; and the consciousness that it is so, and that for many a day after their quarrel they must stand connected, often adds to the pain and bitterness they feel.
Now, what are the causes of these complete separations, or, to put it more correctly, complete alienations?
Death is, of course, a final interruption to friendship, but does not mean alienation. Our dear dead friend is ours still, in a sense. We know that the dead in Christ have a conscious existence, and feel convinced they do not forget, but continue to love us; and looking forward to a reunion some day, we cannot feel that our friendship is broken. A friendship interrupted by death seems to me to be only purified and elevated, and when the thought arises, as it often will: “What would she say to this? how would she advise on that?” the certainty that her opinions must now be always ranged on the side of what conscience tells us is right must tend to draw us upward and onward.