of his sickness,--her eyes wild with misery, without tears; her feverish
mouth open, but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had gone through and
through her. She did not even writhe upon it, but lay motionless, cut
down, dumb with anguish. The father had turned round again and leaned his
head upon the wall. All was over,--all over! The love and the hope of a
dozen lovely years, the little sweet companion, the daily joy, the future
trust--all--over--as if a child had never been born. Then there rose in
the stillness a great and exceeding bitter cry, 'God!' that was all,
pealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they could not see in their
anguish, accusing Him, reproaching Him who had done it. Was He their
enemy that He had done it? No man was ever so wicked, ever so cruel but
he would have spared them their boy,--taken everything and spared them
their boy; but God, God! The little Pilgrim stood by and wept. She could
do nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching with the pity and the
anguish. How were they to be told that it was not God, but the Father;
that God was only His common name, His name in law, and that He was the
Father. This was all she could think of; she had not a word to say. And
the boy had shaken his little bright soul out of the sickness and the
weakness with such a look of delight! He knew in a moment! But they--oh,
when, when would they know?

Presently she sat outside in the soft breathing airs and little morning
breezes, and dried her aching eyes. And the Sage who was her companion
soothed her with kind words. 'I said you would feel the thorns as you
passed,' he said. 'We cannot be free of them, we who are of mankind.'

'But oh,' she cried amid her tears, 'why,--why? The air of the earth is
in my eyes, I cannot see. Oh, what pain it is, what misery! Was it
because they loved him too much, and that he drew their hearts away?'