ome.

[Sidenote: Forgetting]

Forgetting is the finest art of life and is to be desired more than
memory, even though Mnemosyne stands close by Lethe and with her dewy
finger-tips soothes away all pain. The lowest life remembers; to the
highest only is it given to forget.

Yet, when the last word is said, this is the dread and the pity of
death. It is not "the breathless darkness and the narrow house," but the
certain knowledge that one's place can almost instantly be filled. The
lips that quiver with sobs will some day smile again, eyes dimmed by
long weeping will dance with laughter, hearts that once ached bitterly
will some day swell and overflow with a new love.

This knowledge lies heavily upon a woman's soul and saddens, though
often imperceptibly, the happiest marriage. All her toil and striving
may some day be for naught. The fruits of her industry and thrift may
some day gleam in jewels upon the white throat of another woman. Silks
and laces which she could not have will add to the beauty of the
possible woman who will ascend her vacant throne.

Sometimes a woman remains faithful to a memory, and sometimes, though
rarely, a man may do the same. There is only one relation in life which
may not be formed again--that between a mother and her child.

[Sidenote: The Child Upon Her Breast]

The little one may have lived but a few days, yet, if it has once lain
upon her breast, she has something Death may never hope to destroy.
Other children, equally dear, may grow to stalwart manhood and gracious
womanhood, but that face rises to immortality in a world of endless
change.

No single cry, no weak clasp of baby fingers is ever forgotten. Through
all the years, unchanging, and taking on new beauty with every fleeting
day, the little face is still before her. And thus in a way Death brings
her a blessing, for when the others have grown she has it still--the
child upon her breast.

Love's best gifts are not to be taken away. Tender memories must always
be inwoven with the sad, and the sympathy and unselfishness which great
loves ever bring are left to make sweet the nature of one who is
chastened by sorrow. Grief itself never stings; it is the accusing
conscience which turns the dagger remorselessly in the heart.

[Sidenote: Our unsuspected Kindness]

Life, after all, is a masquerade. We fear to show our tenderness and our
love. We habitually hide our best feelings, lest we be judged weak and
emotional, and