The curving stream
glittered. From where he stood he could see them bundling up the
sheaves of wheat. All these things told him mutely that the world was
going on the same as ever; nothing had changed. In the city men and
women were going about their affairs as usual; the smoke rolled up
from the great chimneys. When all is said, our griefs and joys are
wholly our own; the outsider does not participate.
Yes, the world went on just the same. Death makes a vacancy, but the
Great Accountant easily fills it; and the summing up of balances goes
on. Let us thank God for the buoyancy of the human spirit, which,
however sorely tried, presently rises and assumes its normal interest
in life.
Warrington looked dreamily at the grave, and the philosopher in him
speculated upon the mystery of it. Either the grave is Heaven or it is
nothing; one can proceed no farther. If there was a Heaven (and in the
secret corner of his heart he believed there was), a new star shone in
the sky at night, a gentle, peaceful star. Just now the pain came in
the knowledge that she was gone; later the actual absence would be
felt.
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