"Suffering together would have brought you even nearer," I replied.
"Dear Helen, I am very sorry for you; I hope you feel that, even
when, according to my want, I fall into arguments, as if one could
argue a sorrow away!"

"You are so happy," she answered. "Ernest loves you so dearly, and is
so proud of you, and you have such lovely children! I ought not to
expect you to sympathize perfectly with my loneliness.

"Yes, I am happy," I said, after a pause; "but you must own, dear,
that I have had my sorrows, too. Until you become a mother yourself,
you cannot comprehend what a mother can suffer, riot merely for
herself, in losing her children, but in seeing their sufferings. I
think I may say of my happiness that it rests on something higher and
deeper than even Ernest and my children."

"And what is that?"

The will of God, the sweet will of God. If He should take them all
away, I might still possess a peace which would flow on forever. I
know this partly from my own experience and partly from that of
others. Mrs. Campbell says that the three months that followed the
death of her first child were the happiest she had ever known. Mrs.
Wentworth, whose husband was snatched from her almost without
warning, and while using expressions of affection for her such as a
lover addresses to his bride, said to me, with tears rolling down her
cheeks, yet with a smile, I thank my God and Saviour that He has not
forgotten and passed me by, but has counted me worthy to bear this
sorrow for His sake.' And hear this passage from the life of Wesley,
which I lighted on this morning: