I cannot believe it, but still the volume of my
life here is closed, the story is at an end; what remains will be
nothing but a few notes on what has gone before.
January 21st.--I went to church to-day for the first time since the
funeral. Mr. Maxwell preached a dull, doctrinal sermon. Whilst my
husband and Sophy lived, I was a regular attendant at church, and never
thought of disputing anything I heard. It did not make much impression
on me, but I accepted it, and if I had been asked whether I believed it,
I should have said, "Certainly." But now a new standard of belief has
been set up in me, and the word "belief" has a different meaning.
February 3rd.--Whenever I saw anything beautiful I always asked Tom or
Sophy to look. Now I ask nobody. Early this morning, after the storm
in the night, the sky cleared, and I went out about dawn through the
garden up to the top of the orchard and watched the disappearance of the
night in the west. The loveliness of that silent conquest was
unsurpassable. Eighteen months ago I should have run indoors and have
dragged Tom and Sophy back with me.
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