hat now hung,
wind-dried and ruinous, among the boughs. Coming back, he flagged a
little, and did what he seldom did, put his arm in my own; how tenderly
the touch of the little hand, the restless fingers on my arm thrilled
me--the hand that lies cold and folded and shrivelled in the dark
ground! He was proud that evening of having had me all to himself, and
said to Maggie that we had talked secrets, "such as MEN talk when there
are no women to ask questions." But thinking that this had wounded
Maggie a little, he went and put his arm round her, and I heard him say
something about its being all nonsense, and that we had wished for her
all the time. . . .

Ah, how can I endure it, the silence, the absence, the lost smile, the
child of my own whom I loved from head to foot, body soul and spirit
all alike! I keep coming across signs of his presence everywhere, his
books, his garden tools in the summerhouse, the little presents he gave
me, on my study chimney-piece, his cap and coat hanging in the
cupboard--it is these little trifling things, signs of life and joyful
days, that sting the heart and pierce the brain with sorrow. If I could
but have one sight of him, one word with him, one smile, to show that
he is, that he remembers, that he waits for us, I could endure it; but
I look into the dark and no answer comes; I send my wild entreaties
pulsating through the worlds of space, crying, "Are you there, my
child?" That his life is there, hidden with God, I do not doubt; but is
it he himself, or has he fallen back, like the drop of water in the
fountain, into the great tide of life? That is no comfort to me; it is
he that I want, that union of body and mind, of life and love, that was
called my child and is mine no more.

September 20, 1889.

Such a loss as mine passes over the soul like a plough cleaving a
pasture line by line. The true stuff of the spirit is revealed and laid
out in all its bareness. That customary outline, that surface growth of
herb and blade, is all pared away. I have been accustomed to think
myself a religious man--I have never been without the sense of God over
and about me. But when an experience like this comes, it shows me what
my religion is worth. I do not turn to God in love and hope; I do not
know Him, I do not understand Him. I feel that He must have forgotten
me, or that He is indifferent to me, or that He is incapable of love,
and works blindly and sternly. My reason in vain says tha