They told me,
those whispering groves, of the patient and tender love of the
Father, and I drew very near His inmost heart in that gentle hour.
The secret was to bear, to endure, not stoically nor stolidly, but
with a quiet inclination of the will to sorrow and pain, that were
not so bitter after all, when one abode faithfully in them. I
became aware, as I walked, that my heart was with the future after
all. The beautiful dead past, I could be grateful for it, and not
desire that it were mine again. I felt as a man might feel who is
making his way across a wide moor. "Surely," he says to himself,
"the way lies here; this ridge, that dingle mark the track; it lies
there by the rushy pool, and shows greener among the heather." So
he says, persuading himself in vain that he has found the way; but
at last the track, plain and unmistakable, lies before him, and he
loses no more time in imaginings, but goes straight forward. It was
my sorrow, after all, that had shown me that I was in the true
path. I had tried, in the old days, to fancy that I was homeward
bound; sometimes it was in the love of my dear ones, sometimes in
the joy of art, sometimes in my chosen work; and yet I knew in my
heart all the time that I was but a leisurely wanderer; but now at
last the destined road was clear; I was no longer astray; I was no
longer inventing duties and acts for myself, but I had in very
truth a note of the way.
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