Why then should I say alas? Were it better that the heart were like
the shape? or are such as Rachel forgotten before the God of the
sparrows? No, surely; but he who most distinctly believes that from
before the face of God every sorrow shall vanish, that they that sow
in tears shall reap in joy, that death is but a mist that for a
season swathes the spirit, and that, ever as the self-seeking
vanishes from love, it groweth more full of delight--even he who
with all his heart believes this, may be mournful over the aching of
another heart while yet it lasts; and he who looks for his own death
as his resurrection, may yet be sorrowful at every pale sunset that
reminds him of the departure of the beloved before him.

The curate rose and took his departure, but the light of the gaze
that had rested upon him lingered yet on the countenance of Rachel,
and a sad half-smile hung over the motions of the baby-like fingers
that knitted so busily.

The draper followed the curate, and Polwarth went up to his own
room: he never could keep off his knees for long together. And as
soon as she was alone, Rachel's hands dropped on her lap, her eyes
closed, and her lips moved with solemn sweet motions. If there was a
hearing ear open to that little house, oh surely those two were
blessed! If not, then kind death was yet for a certainty drawing
nigh--only, what if in deep hell there should be yet a deeper hell?
And until slow Death arrive, what loving heart can bear the load
that stupid Chance or still more stupid Fate has heaped upon it? Yet
had I rather be crushed beneath the weight of mine, and die with my
friends in the moaning of eternal farewells, than live like George
Bascombe to carry lightly his little bag of content. A cursed
confusion indeed is the universe, if it be no creation, but the