is father was too much of a
coward to go into those same shadows, carrying his own light.

"And if his heart is ever filled with an awful agony that requires all
his strength to meet it, he will remember that his father failed. I
could not rest in my grave if my son, living, should despise me, even
though my narrow house was in the same darkness that hides Her."

"_July tenth. Dawn._

[Sidenote: Punishment]

"This, then, is my punishment. Because for one hour my self-control
deserted me, when my man's blood had been crying out for three years for
the touch of her--because for one little hour my hungry arms held her
close to my aching heart, there is no peace. Nowhere in earth nor in
heaven nor in hell is there one moment's forgetfulness. Nowhere in all
God's illimitable universe is there pardon and surcease of pain.

"The blind man comes to me and talks of her. He asks me piteously,
'Why?' He calls me his friend. He says that she often spoke of me; that
they were glad to have me in their house. He asks me if she ever said
one word that would give a reason. Was she unhappy? Was it because he
was blind and the little yellow-haired baby with her mother's blue eyes
was born lame? I can only say 'No,' and beg him not to talk of it--not
even to think of it."

"_July twentieth. Night._

"The beauty of the world at midsummer only makes my loneliness more
keen. The butterflies flit through the meadows like wandering souls of
last year's flowers that died and were buried by the snow. The harvest
moon, red-gold and wonderful, will rise slowly up out of the sea. The
path of light will lie on the still waters and widen into a vast arc at
the line of the shore. Cobwebs will come among the stubble when the
harvest is gathered in and on them will lie dewdrops that the moon will
make into pearls.

[Sidenote: Cycle of the Seasons]

"The gorgeous colouring of Autumn will transfigure the hills with glory,
and fill the far silences with misty amethyst and gold. The year-long
sleep will come with the first snow, and the stars burn blue and cold in
the frosty night. April bugles will wake the violets and anemones, the
dead leaves of Autumn will be starred with springtime bloom, May will
dance through the world with lilacs and apple blossoms, and I shall be
alone.

"I can go to her grave again and see the violets all around it, their
exquisite odour made of her dust. I can carry to her the first roses of
June, as I used to do,