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who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation
even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service- I, His
ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well,
propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.'
He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him
than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.
Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day
approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried
to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against was
one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated
that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet
known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a
parting for years: it might be a parting for life.
'He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,' she said:
'natural affection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks
quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him
gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of
it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his
severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It
is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!' And the tears
gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.
'We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and
brother,' she murmured.
At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed
by fate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that 'misfortunes
never come singly,' and to add to their distresses the vexing one of
the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window
reading a letter. He entered.
'Our uncle John is dead,' said he.
Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; the
tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.
'Dead?' repeated Diana.
'Yes.'
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. 'And what
then?' she demanded, in a low voice.
'What then, Die?' he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of
feature. 'What then? Why- nothing. Read.'
He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed
it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her
brother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled- a
dreary, pensive smile enough.
'Amen! We can yet live,' said Diana at last.
'At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,'
remarked Mary.
'Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what
might have been; said Mr. Rivers, 'and contrasts it somewhat too
vividly with what is.'
He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.
For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me.
'Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,' she said, 'and
think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so