But our hearts are
cunningly made, many-stringed; and often much good music is left in them
when we count them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this lot,
the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even that I can bear
now, calmly, and count it God's kindness too.
_Annie_. I do not understand you, sister.
_Helen_. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he quarrelled with my
brother, and took arms against my country, what if he had kept faith to
_me?_
_Annie_. Well.
_Helen. Well?_ Oh no, it would not have been well. Why, my home would
have been with that pursuing army now, my fate bound up with that hollow
cause,--these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression;
nay, the sword whose edge was turned against you, against you all, and
against the cause, that with tears, night and morning, you were praying
for, and with your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour.
No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if in my
heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed brides, on whose
wedding dawns the laughing sun of peace, then with a wish I cast away
the glory of these suffering times.
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