There she lighted
a candle, sat down on a pile of goods, and gave herself up to
memories of the past. Back and back went her thoughts as far as
she could send them. God was everywhere in all the story; and the
clearer she saw him there the surer she was that she would find
him as she went on. She was neither sad nor fearful. The dead
hours of the night came, that valley of the shadow of death where
faith seems to grow weary and sleep, and all the things of the
shadow wake up and come out and say, "Here we are, and there is
nothing but us and our kind in the universe!" They woke up and
came out upon Mary now, but she fought them off. Either there is
mighty, triumphant life at the root and apex of all things, or
life is not--and whence, then, the power of dreaming horrors? It
is life alone--life imperfect--that can fear; death can not fear.
Even the terror that walketh by night is a proof that I live, and
that it shall not prevail against me. And to Mary, besides her
heavenly Father, her William Marston seemed near all the time.
Whereever she turned she saw the signs of him, and she pleased
herself to think that perhaps he was there to welcome her. But it
would not have made her the least sad to know for certain that he
was far off, and would never come near her again in this world.
She knew that, spite of time and space, she was and must be near
him so long as she loved and did the truth.
Pages:
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559