we did together, places that we visited together, thoughts even that we
thought together.

There seems no region of life where we can escape from the suggestions
of memory. The sight of any little object can bring him back, with his
way of speaking, with his tricks of gesture, with all the qualities for
which we loved him, and for which we mourn him now. If the intimacy
was due to mere physical proximity, the loss will be only a vague sense
of uneasiness through the breakdown of long-continued habit; but, if
the two lives were woven into the same web, there must be ragged edges
left, and it is a weary task to take up the threads again, and find a
new woof for the warp. The closer the connection has been, the keener
is the loss. It comes back to us at the sight of the many things
associated with him, and, fill up our lives with countless distractions
as we may, the shadow creeps back to darken the world.

Sometimes there is the added pain of remorse that we did not enough
appreciate the treasure we possessed. In thoughtlessness we accepted
the gift; we had so little idea of the true value of his friendship; we
loved so little, and were so impatient:--if only we had him back again;
if only we had one more opportunity to show him how dear he was; if
only we had another chance of proving ourselves worthy. We can hardly
forgive ourselves that we were so cold and selfish. Self-reproach, the
regret of the unaccepted opportunity, is one of the commonest feelings
after bereavement, and it is one of the most blessed.

Still, it may become a morbid feeling. It is a false sentimentalism
which lives in the past, and lavishes its tenderness on memory. It is
difficult to say what is the dividing line between healthy sorrow and
morbid sentiment. It seems a natural instinct, which makes the
bereaved care lovingly for the very grave, and which makes the mother
keep locked up the little shoes worn by the little feet, relics hid
from the vulgar eye. The instinct has become a little more morbid,
when it has preserved the room of a dead mother, with its petty
decorations and ornaments as she left them. Beautiful as the instinct
may be, there is nothing so dangerous as when our most natural feeling
turns morbid.

It is always a temptation, which grows stronger the longer we live, to
look back instead of forward, to bemoan the past, and thus deride the
present and distrust the future. We must not forget our present
blessings