er first error, and the second proved almost as mischievous.
She thought to divert Morris from a central idea by a multitude of
petty counter-attractions; she believed that by stopping him from the
scientific labours and esoteric speculation connected with this idea,
that it would be deadened and in time obliterated.

As a matter of fact, by thus emptying his mind of its serious and
accustomed occupations, Mary made room for the very development she
dreaded to flourish like an upas tree. For although he breathed no word
of it, although he showed no sign of it, to Morris the memory of the
dead was a constant companion. Time heals all things, that is the common
saying; but would it be possible to formulate any fallacy more complete?
There are many wounds that time does not heal, and often enough against
the dead it has no power at all--for how can time compete against the
eternity of which they have become a part? The love of them where they
have been truly loved, remains quite unaltered; in some instances,
indeed, it is emdued with a power of terrible and amazing growth.

On earth, very probably, that deep affection would have become subject
to the natural influences of weakening and decay; and, in the instance
of a man and woman, the soul-possessing passion might have passed, to
be replaced by a more moderate, custom-worn affection. But the dead are
beyond the reach of those mouldering fingers. There they stand, perfect
and unalterable, with arms which never cease from beckoning, with a
smile that never grows less sweet. Come storm, come shine, nothing can
tarnish the pure and gleaming robes in which our vision clothes them. We
know the worst of them; their faults and failings cannot vex us afresh,
their errors are all forgiven. It is their best part only that remains
unrealised and unread, their purest aspirations which we follow with
leaden wings, their deepest thoughts that we still strive to plumb with
the short line of our imagination or experience, and to weigh in our
imperfect balances.

Yes, there they stand, and smile, and beckon, while ever more radiant
grow their brows, and more to be desired the knowledge of their perfect
majesty. There is no human passion like this passion for the dead;
none so awful, none so holy, none so changeless. For they have become
eternal, and our desire for them is sealed with the stamp of their
eternity, and strengthens in the shadow of its wings till the shadows
flee away and w