souffrir ne pent pas s’aller perdre dans la terre.  Les vers heriteront de la poussiere de ton corps, mais l’amertume de ton ame, qui en heritera?  Ces extases sublimes, ces tourments affreux; ces hauteurs des cieux, ces profondeurs des abimes; qu’y a-t-il d’assez grand ou d’assez abaisse, d’assez eleve ou d’assez avili pour les revetir en ta place?  Non, tu ne saurais jamais croire que tout meurt avec le corps; ou si tu le pouvais tu n’en serais que plus insense, plus miserable encore.

It is proof how child-like I had been, how obedient in suppressing all forbidden thoughts, that these words smote me with such horror.  I had indulged in no speculation; I had never thought of him as haunted by the self he fled; as still bound to an inexorable and inextinguishable life,

                     “With time and hope behind him cast,
     And all his work to do with palsied hands and cold.”

The terrors I had had, had been vague.  I had thought dimly of punishment, more keenly of separation.  If I had analysed my thoughts, I suppose I should have found annihilation to have been my belief—­death forever, loss eternal.  But this—­if this were truth—­(and it smote me as the truth alone can smite), oh, it was maddening.  To my knees!  To my knees!  Oh, that I might live long years to pray for him!  Oh, that I might stretch out my hands to God for him, withered with age and shrunk with fasting, and strong but in faith and final perseverance!  Oh, it could not be too late!  What was prayer made for, but for a time like this?  What was this little breath of time, compared with the Eternal Years, that we should only speak now for each other to our merciful God, and never speak for each other afterward?  Spirits are forever; and is prayer only for the days of the body?

It was well for me that none of the doubts that are so often expressed had found any lodgment in my brain; if I had not believed that I had a right to pray for him, and that my prayers might help him, I cannot understand how I could have lived through those nights and days of thought.

CHAPTER XXI.

APRSE PERDRE, PERD ON BIEN.

     What to those who understand
     Are to-day’s enjoyments narrow,
     Which to-morrow go again,
     Which are shared with evil men,
     And of which no man in his dying
     Taketh aught for softer lying?

It was now early spring:  the days were lengthening and were growing soft.  Lent (late that year) was nearly over.  I had begun to think much about the summer, and to wonder if I were to pass it in the city.  There was one thing that the winter had developed in me, and that was, a sort of affection for my uncle.  I had learned that I owed him a duty, and had tried to find ways of fulfilling it; had taken a little interest in the house, and had tried to make him more comfortable.  Also I had prayed very constantly for him, and perhaps there is no way more certain of establishing an affection, or at least a charity for another, than that.