Things
are too horribly uneven."

"Dear child, this world is not all. It's only the beginning, and so
soon over."

"Oh, no, Miggles, that's not true. It may seem so from the standpoint
of eternity; but we are human creatures, and from our standpoint it's
terribly, terribly long. Fourscore years, and how slow those years are
in the passing! When I think I may have fifty more!... Besides, even
eternity doesn't right things. How can it? If we are all going to be
happy in heaven, Jean will be as happy as I. There will be no
difference between us, but she will have had the earth-joy which I have
missed, the dear, sweet, simple, domestic joys for which I was made, for
which my body was fashioned, for which I crave. They are gone--gone for
ever! Eternity itself can't make them up. There seems no
compensation."

The old woman pressed her hand on the girl's dark head, but for some
minutes she did not speak. Into her placid, gentle nature, such
upheavals had never come; she had been content to walk along the narrow
way, taking each day as it came, without bitterness or repining, but the
natural shrewdness which relieved her character from insipidity would
not allow her to take the credit of this attribute to herself. "It's
because I was given that disposition," she told herself humbly. "Vanna
is clever and ambitious. It's more difficult for her." She shut her
eyes, and prayed that the right words might be sent to her feeble lips.

"But, dearie, I'm not so sure that we _shall_ all be equally happy in
heaven, any more than on earth. I never could believe that just because
your body died you were going to wake up a perfected saint. We've got
to learn our lessons, and perhaps happiness isn't the quickest way. I
can't argue--never could; the dear boys found that out, and used to lay
traps for me, asking me to explain; but life is only a little voyage--a
trial trip, as the papers say. You may have fine weather, or you may
have storms; the only thing that matters is to get safe to the haven.
Sometimes when we've been down here for the summer it has rained
persistently; 1861 was one year--the time Pat broke his leg! We've been
cross and disappointed, and at the time it has seemed hard, but looking
back after a few years it has faded into nothing. `Wasn't it wet?' we
say, and laugh. It was only for a month--such a little time! Who would
think of looking back and grizzling over a little disappointment twelve
ye