Upon that stairway, one by one
emerging from the mist, seem to stagger and climb the figures of
men, entering in, one by one, and the three, with smiles and arms
interlaced, are watching eagerly. Cannot I climb the stair? Perhaps
even now I am close below them, where the mist hangs damp on rock
and blade? Cannot I set myself free? No, I could not look them in
the face, they would hide their eyes from me, if I came in hurried
flight, in passionate cowardice. Not so must I come before them, if
indeed they wait for me.
The morning was coming in about the dewy garden, the birds piping
faint in thicket and bush, when I stumbled slowly, dizzied and
helpless, to my bed. Then a troubled sleep; and ah, the bitter
waking; for at last I knew what I had lost.
February 10, 1891.
"All things become plain to us," said the good vicar, pulling on
his gloves, "when we once realise that God is love--Perfect Love!"
He said good-bye; he trudged off to his tea, a trying visit
manfully accomplished, leaving me alone.
He had sate with me, good, kindly man, for twenty minutes. There
were tears in his eyes, and I valued that little sign of human
fellowship more than all the commonplaces he courageously
enunciated.
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