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Thus in her great grief she fell away from her faith in God,
and dark thoughts arose in her mind respecting death and a future state. She
tried to believe that man was but dust, and that with his life all existence
ended. But these doubts were no support to her, nothing on which she could rest,
and she sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In her darkest hours she
ceased to weep, and thought not of the young daughters who were still left to
her. The tears of her husband fell on her forehead, but she took no notice of
him; her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole existence seemed wrapped
up in the remembrances of the little one and of every innocent word it had
uttered.
The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights
previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning twilight of this day she
sunk from weariness into a deep sleep; in the mean time the coffin was carried
into a distant room, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows of
the hammer. When she awoke, and wanted to see her child, the husband, with
tears, said, "We have closed the coffin; it was necessary to do so." "When God
is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better?" she said with groans and
tears.
When she awoke, and wanted to see her child, the husband, with
tears, said, "We have closed the coffin; it was necessary to do so." "When God
is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better?" she said with groans and
tears. The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate mother sat with
her young daughters. She looked at them, but she saw them not; for her thoughts
were far away from the domestic hearth. She gave herself up to her grief, and it
tossed her to and fro, as the sea tosses a ship without compass or
rudder.
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"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and would you
make another mother as unhappy as yourself?" "Another mother!" cried the poor
woman, setting the flowers free from her hands. "There are your eyes," said
Death. "I fished them up out of the lake for you. They were shining brightly;
but I knew not they were yours. Take them back- they are clearer now than
before- and then look into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you
the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the
whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were about to
frustrate and destroy."
Then she looked into the well; and it was a
glorious sight to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how
much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the other
was full of care and poverty, misery and woe. "Both are the will of God," said
Death. "Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" she said.
"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may learn, that one of
the two flowers represents your own child.
"That I may not tell you,"
said Death; "but thus far you may learn, that one of the two flowers represents
your own child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,- the future of your
own child." Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs
to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much
misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and
my entreaties; forget all that I have said or done."
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Each of them is like a closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we
can read the title of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great
deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself. I
keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure a history of
all who lie here, and a few more beside. Now we are in the churchyard. Here,
behind the white iron railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a
little bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green
tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet
while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position.
Here,
behind the white iron railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a
little bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green
tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet
while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had enough to
live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least
thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an evening, instead
of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed if the machinist had put too
strong a light into one side of the moon, or if the representations of the sky
hung over the scenes when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree
was introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a
cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of Norway.
As if
these things were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who would
trouble themselves about such trifles? especially at a comedy, where every one
is expected to be amused. Then sometimes the public applauded too much, or too
little, to please him. "They are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to
see what sort of people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them." Then
he would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right time, or
because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried himself
till at last the unhappy man fretted himself into the grave.
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