Wasn't
there space and breath for him? Why should such qualities be so
bestowed, to be so wasted? Why kindle such a light, to quench it so
soon in the dark river? What a blunder! Why was not I taken?"
Why? Oh, weak, vain questioner!
He threw off part of his clothing, and lay down on the bed and slept.
He awoke, offended and grieved that the sun should shine. Why was
it not hidden by thick clouds, and why should they not weep? But why
should they, if he did not? And what business had the birds to be
glad and joyous, and the perfume of flowers to steal out on the bright
air?
He knew he was wrong. He was no longer angry and defiant, but his
grief was dry and harsh, and his sensibilities creaked like a dry
axle.
He found his mother tender, calm, and pitying him. Awful as was the
bereavement to her, she felt that the loss was, after all, to him.
Her strong nature, quivering and bleeding under the blow, had righted
itself, and the sweet influence of faith and hope was coming up in
her heart. She saw Barton with his pallid face, and steady but bright
eyes. She knew that she never quite understood, had never quite
fathomed, his nature.
Gentle voices, assuaging hands, and sweet charities were about the
stricken ones; and pious hands, with all Christian observances,
ministered to their beautiful dead. Nothing more could be done; and
before mid-day Barton, with his mother, started on their return, to
be followed at evening by the remains of the loved one, arrayed for
sepulture.
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