Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/74

66 said Olivia, musingly; “we have been favored ones hitherto. But why did you say one must see the world through such a medium as this?”

“Sorrow is God's school,” said the old man. “Even God's own Son was not made perfect without it; though a son, yet learned he obedience by the things that he suffered. Many of the brightest virtues are like stars; there must be night or they cannot shine. Without suffering, there could be no fortitude, no patience, no compassion, no sympathy. Take all sorrow out of life, and you take away all richness and depth and tenderness. Sorrow is the furnace that melts selfish hearts together in love. Many are hard and inconsiderate, not because they lack capability of feeling, but because the vase that holds the sweet waters has never been broken.”

“Is it, then, an imperfection and misfortune never to have suffered?” said Olivia.

Father Payson looked down. Rose was looking into his face. There was a bright, eager, yet subdued expression in her eyes that struck him; it had often struck him before in the village church. It was as if his words had awakened an internal angel, that looked fluttering out behind them. Rose had been from childhood one of those thoughtful, listening children with whom one seems to commune without words. We spend hours talking with them, and fancy they have said many things to us, which, on reflection, we find have been said only with their silent answering eyes. Those who talk much often reply to you less than those who silently and thoughtfully listen. And so it came to pass, that, on account of this quietly absorbent nature, Rose had grown to her parents hearts with a peculiar nearness. Eighteen summers had perfected her beauty. The miracle of the growth and perfection of a human body and soul never waxes old; parents marvel at it in every household as if a child had never grown before; and so Olivia and Albert looked on their fair Rose daily with a restful and trusting pride.

At this moment she laid her hand on Father Payson's knee, and said earnestly,—“Ought we to pray for sorrow, then?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” interrupted Olivia, with an instinctive shudder,—such a shudder as a warm, earnest, prosperous heart always gives as the shadow of the grave falls across it,—“don't say yes!” I do not say we should pray for it, said Father Payson; “yet the Master says, 'Blessed are they that mourn,' not 'Blessed are they that prosper.' So heaven and earth differ in their judgments.”

“Ah, me!” said Olivia, “I am afraid I have not courage to wish to be among the blessed.”

“Well,” said Albert, whom the gravity of the discussion somewhat disturbed, “let us not borrow trouble; time enough to think of it when it happens. Come, the dew is falling, let us go in. I want to show Father Payson some peaches that will tempt his Christian graces to envy. Come, Rose, gather up here.”

Rose, in a few moments, gathered the parcel together, and quietly flitted before them into the house.

“Now," said Albert, “you'll see that girl will have everything quietly tucked away in just the right place; not a word said. She is a born housewife; its in her, as much as it is in a pointer to show game.”

“Rose is my right hand,” said Olivia; “I should be lost without her.”

Whence comes it, that, just on the verge of the great crises and afflictions of life, words are often spoken, that, to after view, seem to have had a prophetic meanino? So often do we hear people saying, “Ah, the very day before I heard of this or that, we were saying so and so!” It would seem sometimes as if the soul felt itself being drawn within the dark sphere of a coming evil, of which as yet nothing outward tells. Then the thoughts and conversation flow in an almost prophetic channel, which a coming future too well interprets.