" ^ Oh, my lost, loved one ! Is there anything in life that can compensate for the agonies I have suffered since yourii-ail, inanimate form w%as car- ried to the snow-covered graveyard? The world may be full of beauty, but I neither see nor enjoy it without you. Why was I permitted to love you with such an all-absorbing love, that when you went out of life you took with you all its sun- shine and fragrance ? Can it be that "He doeth all things well ? " Though my lips give utterance to the expression, my heart refuses to acknowl- edsre His 2:oodness. Wherein lies the c^oodness of the blow that has so cruelly deprived me of my earthly treasure ? Does such merciless sorrow as mine benefit me, or the world? Is it essential to the happiness of a future life, that this one should be so full of suffering ? ' "* To-day I gazed down from the mountain-tops upon a scene of surpassing loveliness. And I IN THE ORCHARD. 163 asked, How many men and women within the whole scope of my vision are capable of enjoying this glorious prospect? Not the weary laborers, who are toiliniir and sweatini2: in the fields to earn a bare subsistence ; not the wealthy possessors of all these fiirms and houses, who are insanely strug- o:lin<2: to amass more and more wealth ; nottheaimless wanderers, with bli2:hted or broken lives, vainlv endeavoring to flee away from their own Avretch- edness. A favored few there may be, perhaps, who enjoy it in a measure. But even they have no lease of happiness, and no security for their enjoyment continuing beyond the passing moment. Those who are happiest to-day may to-morrow be overwhelmed with grief as crushing and poignant as mine. Why, then, do we exist? Or why were we created ? Why are the vast majority of the earth's inhabitants born only to struggle and toil, to sufi*er and weep ? Can it be that we are born for a brief life, filled mostly with unhappi- ness, or, at the best, with only negative happi- ness, and that we then drop out of existence for- ever ? ' " ^ This morning the preacher took for a text, " It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." And his sermon seemed to me like blas- phemy. Are we not always in God's hands? Does he "ever let any one drop out of his protect- 1G4 COOKING AND CASTLE-BUILDING. ing arms ? Can it be that we slip from his grasp when death overtakes us? Banish the thought. I will not entertain it. The preacher did not realize what he said. It would be a fearful thing to fall out of the hands of the living God. Only in his loving embrace do we rest secure.'" " ' The Meditations of Gerald Douglas,' it seems to me," interrupted Emeline, " would be a more appropriate title for the volume than ^ A Memoir of Helen Douoflas.' " "O no, ma," said Alice, "I have only read you some of the reflections suggested to his mind while preparing the memoir of his dead wife. Let me read you a portion of the memoir itself." " Not now, Alice," was the quiet reply of her mother ; " it is no doubt beautifully written, but I think you have read enough for the present. Let us take a ramble." EDIBLES AND EDUCATION. 165 CHAPTER X. EDIBLES AND EDUCATION. " Egg-plant ? " interrogatively remarked Cousin Emeline, as we took our seats at the table. "Tliis must be a new and early variety ? "

AI-modernized reading of the original text

" ^ Oh, my lost, loved one ! Is there anything in life that can compensate for the agonies I have suffered since your pale, inanimate form was carried to the snow-covered graveyard? The world may be full of beauty, but I neither see nor enjoy it without you. Why was I permitted to love you with such an all-absorbing love, that when you went out of life you took with you all its sunshine and fragrance ? Can it be that "He doeth all things well ? " Though my lips give utterance to the expression, my heart refuses to acknowledge His goodness. Wherein lies the goodness of the blow that has so cruelly deprived me of my earthly treasure ? Does such merciless sorrow as mine benefit me, or the world? Is it essential to the happiness of a future life, that this one should be so full of suffering ? ' "* To-day I gazed down from the mountain-tops upon a scene of surpassing loveliness. And I asked, How many men and women within the whole scope of my vision are capable of enjoying this glorious prospect? Not the weary laborers, who are toiling and sweating in the fields to earn a bare subsistence ; not the wealthy possessors of all these farms and houses, who are insanely struggling to amass more and more wealth ; notthaimless wanderers, with bli2:hted or broken lives, vainlv endeavoring to flee away from their own Avretchedness. A favored few there may be, perhaps, who enjoy it in a measure. But even they have no lease of happiness, and no security for their enjoyment continuing beyond the passing moment. Those who are happiest to-day may to-morrow be overwhelmed with grief as crushing and poignant as mine. Why, then, do we exist? Or why were we created ? Why are the vast majority of the earth's inhabitants born only to struggle and toil, to suffer and weep ? Can it be that we are born for a brief life, filled mostly with unhappiness, or, at the best, with only negative happiness, and that we then drop out of existence forever ? ' " ^ This morning the preacher took for a text, " It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." And his sermon seemed to me like blasphemy. Are we not always in God's hands? Does he "ever let any one drop out of his protecting arms ? Can it be that we slip from his grasp when death overtakes us? Banish the thought. I will not entertain it. The preacher did not realize what he said. It would be a fearful thing to fall out of the hands of the living God. Only in his loving embrace do we rest secure.'" " ' The Meditations of Gerald Douglas,' it seems to me," interrupted Emeline, " would be a more appropriate title for the volume than "A Memoir of Helen Douglas".' " "O no, ma," said Alice, "I have only read you some of the reflections suggested to his mind while preparing the memoir of his dead wife. Let me read you a portion of the memoir itself." " Not now, Alice," was the quiet reply of her mother ; " it is no doubt beautifully written, but I think you have read enough for the present. Let us take a ramble." CHAPTER X. " Egg-plant ? " interrogatively remarked Cousin Emeline, as we took our seats at the table. "This must be a new and early variety ? "

Cooking and castle-building