It was just the weather for a holiday--brisk and bracing. Sleigh-bells
were jingling merrily, as the deep drifts of the road having been
overcome, one after another of the families of the neighborhood had
commenced their round, bearing baskets filled with gifts and pleasant
tokens of remembrance, with the customary wishes and salutations of the
day.
The young mother sat in the group of happy children, but she did not
smile on them. Her hand rested fondly on one little head and another, as
they pressed to her side with eager question or exclamation. She drew
the little one with a quick, earnest clasp to her heaving bosom. Her
tremulous lips refused to obey the impulse of her will; she left
Edward's question unanswered, and abruptly placing Willie in the arms of
his careful nurse, she rushed away from the gladness she could not bear,
to the solitude of her own chamber. There she fell upon her knees and
covered her face, while the storm of sorrow she had striven so hard to
stem, swept over her. Amid groans of agony, came forth the low
murmur--"'Write his children _fatherless_, and his wife a _widow_!' Oh,
my God, why must this be? _His_ children fatherless, _his_ wife a
widow!"
Soon came the quick sobs which told that the overcharged heart which had
seemed ready to burst, had found temporary relief in tears; then
followed the low moans of calmer endurance, and the widow's heart sunk
back into all it had yet found of peace under this great bereavement,
though it had been months since the blow fell; the peace of
submission--"Not my will, but thine, O God, be done!" This time it
expressed itself in the quaint words of Herbert;
"Do thou thy holy will;--
_I will lie still_.
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