Her haste is too eager to
allay the pain about her, her husband's touch too strong and
tender, the Master beside her too actual a presence, for her to
waste her life in visions. Something of Lois's live, universal
sympathy has come into her narrow, intenser nature; through its
one love, it may be. What is To-Morrow until it comes? This
moment the evening air thrills with a purple of which no painter
as yet has caught the tint, no poet the meaning; no silent face
passes her on the street on which a human voice might not have
charm to call out love and power: the Helper yet waits near her.
Here is work, life: the Old Year you despise holds beauty, pain,
content yet unmastered: let us leave Margret to master them.
It does not satisfy you? Child-souls, you tell me, like that of
Lois, may find it enough to hold no past and no future, to accept
the work of each moment, and think it no wrong to drink every
drop of its beauty and joy: we, who are wiser, laugh at them. It
may be: yet I say unto you, their angels only do always behold
the face of our Father in the New Year.
End of A Project Gutenberg Etext of A Story of To-day
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