sep. 24, 1900.

i have had an interview with her. i hardly know what we said—very little—she understood, and it was very peaceful in her presence. i tried to tell her not to be sorry; for indeed the one thing that seems to me inconceivable is that any one should grieve. i lie like a boat upon a quiet tide, drifting out to sea—the sea to which we must all drift. i am thankful for my life and all its sweetness; the shadows have gone, and it seems to me now as though all the happiness came from god, and all the shadow was of my own making. and the strangest thought of all is that the darkest shadow has always been this very passing which now seems to me the most natural thing in the world—indeed the only true thing.

none the less am i thankful for this great and crowning gift of love—the one thing that i had missed. i do not now even want to use it, to enjoy it—it is there, and that is enough. in her presence it seemed to me that love[252] stood side by side with death, two shining sisters. but yesterday i murmured over having been given, as it were, so sweet a cup to taste, and then having the cup dashed from my lips. to-day i see that love was the crown of my poor life, and i thank god with all the strength of my spirit for putting it into my hand as his last and best gift.

and i thanked her too for deigning to love me; and even while i did so, the thought broke to pieces, as it were, and escaped from the feeble words in which i veiled it, like a moth bursting from a cocoon. for were we not each other’s before the world was made? and the thought of myself and herself fled from me, and we were one spirit, thinking the same thoughts, sustained by the same strength. one more word i said, and bade her believe that i said it with undimmed and unblunted mind, that she must live, and cast abroad by handfuls the love she would have garnered for me; that the sorrow that lay heavy on her heart must be fruitful, not a devastating sorrow; and that however much alone she might seem, that i should be there, like one who kneels without a closed door ... and so we said farewell.

[253]

nearly home

i lie now in my own room—it is evening; through the open window i can see the dark-stemmed trees, the pigeon-cotes, the shadowy shoulder of the barn, the soft ridges beyond, the little wood-end that i saw once in the early dawn and thought so beautiful. when i saw it before it seemed to me like the gate of the unknown country; will my hovering spirit pass that way? i have lived my little life—and my heart goes out to all of every tribe and nation under the sun who are still in the body. i would tell them with my last breath that there is comfort to the end—that there is nothing worth fretting over or being heavy-hearted about it; that the father’s arm is strong, and that his heart is very wide.