But these years show us
the evil that mocks that trust.
'Tis he,--What a mere thread of time separates me from my fate, and yet
the darkness of ages could not hide it more surely. Already he has
reached the lane. Another minute will show me all. Will the pacquet be
in his hand, or will it not? I will be calm--it shall be like a picture
to me.
Ah! there is an immeasurable power about us, a foreign and strange
thing, that answers not to the soul, that seems to know or to heed
nothing of the living suffering, rejoicing being of the spirit. Why
should I struggle with it any longer? From my weeping childhood to this
hour, it hath set its iron bars about me; no--softly yielding, hath it
not sometimes, the long, undreamed-of vistas opened, bright as
heaven,--and now, maybe--how slow he moves--even now perchance.--This is
wrong. The Infinite is One. The Goodness Infinite, whose everlasting
smile lighteth the inner soul, and the Power Infinite, whose alien touch
without, in darkness comes, they are of One, and the good know it.
_The Messenger_. (_Coming up the path_.)
Bless you, Miss! The pacquet had been gone this hour!
_Helen_.
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