had been, unconsciously to himself, led by her instead
of leading, her spiritual food had been its beautiful
old hymns and prayers, which she found no weariness
in often repeating. But now an unnatural conflict
was begun in her mind, directed by a spiritual guide
in whom every natural and normal movement of the soul
had given way before a succession of morbid and unhealthful
experiences. From that day Agnes wore upon her
heart one of those sharp instruments of torture which
in those times were supposed to be a means of inward
grace,—a cross with seven steel points for
the seven sorrows of Mary. She fasted with a
severity which alarmed her grandmother, who in her
inmost heart cursed the day that ever she had placed
her in the way of saintship.
“All this will just end in spoiling her beauty,—making
her as thin as a shadow,”—said Elsie;
“and she was good enough before.”
But it did not spoil her beauty,-it only changed its
character. The roundness and bloom melted away,—but
there came in their stead that solemn, transparent
clearness of countenance, that spiritual light and
radiance, which the old Florentine painters gave to
their Madonnas.
It is singular how all religious exercises and appliances
take the character of the nature that uses them.
The pain and penance, which so many in her day bore
as a cowardly expedient for averting divine wrath,
seemed, as she viewed them, a humble way of becoming
associated in the sufferings of her Redeemer. “Jesu
dulcis memoria,” was the thought that carried
a redeeming sweetness with every pain. Could she
thus, by suffering with her Lord, gain power like
Him to save,—a power which should save
that soul so dear and so endangered! “Ah,”
she thought, “I would give my life-blood, drop
by drop, if only it might avail for his salvation!”
* * * *
*
What was she like? I cannot tell.
I only know God loved her well.
Two noble sons her gray hairs blest,—
And he, their sire, was now at rest.
And why her children loved her so,
And called her blessed, all shall know:
She never had a selfish thought,
Nor valued what her hand had wrought.
She could be just in spite of love;
And cherished hates she dwelt above;
In sick-rooms they that had her care
Said she was wondrous gentle there.
It was a fearful trust, she knew,
To guide her young immortals through;
But Love and Truth explained the way,
And Piety made perfect day.
She taught them to be pure and true,
And brave, and strong, and courteous,
too;
She made them reverence silver hairs,
And feel the poor man’s biting cares.
She won them ever to her side; Home
was their treasure and their pride: Its food,
drink, shelter pleased them best, And there they
found the sweetest rest.
And often, as the shadows fell,
And twilight had attuned them well,
She sang of many a noble deed,
And marked with joy their eager heed.
