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This little account has not done justice to the life of Stanislaus
Kostka; and, indeed, it is very hard to do justice to it. He was
a most human and lovable boy, but he was besides a wonderful,
bright being that eludes the grip of our common minds. He was a
citizen of heaven, who lived here amongst us, kindly and
companionable indeed, during eighteen years of exile. To try to
describe him is like trying to describe a star in the far sky of
night.

That love for God, of which we speak so brokenly, which at its
best in us is so small and cold, was the soul of his soul, the
inner core and substance of his life. Here, in the misty country
of faith, he had something of that radiant and rapturous union
with God which all of us, as we hope, shall one day have in
heaven.

All the sweet and strong twining of our hearts about father and
mother and relatives and dear friends, all that binds us in
affection to those we love in life, was multiplied and made many
times stronger in his rare nature and lifted up by God's grace to
fix itself upon God, the infinite Goodness, the supreme Beauty.

God was not a mere Name or a Power to him, not even the mere Lord
and Master of all: God was his friend, his dearest intimate, his
sure, strong, patient, loving counselor; whose presence was with
him, waking and sleeping; whose interests were nearest his heart;
whose commands it was a delight to obey; whose slightest wish and
beckoning was eagerly watched for and joyously followed.