Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is
he? When one thinks of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a
happy release."
She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear
this ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was
expecting him home to dinner.
"Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He'll want a little cheerful
company more than ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank,
but turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am
sure if I had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when
poor dear Mr. Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did;
but the children were too young, and there was no one to come and divert
me with any news. If I'd been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not
have let my grief get the better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet
rubber in the evenings, do you think?"
But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent
by God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher
good; and he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there
would be no passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were
trustfully acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it,
and defraud it by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions
of worldly things, not let it do its full work.
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