"
"Is not all prayer that--talking, pleading with a God nigh at hand?"
I did not reply. My eyes were fastened on the crowd now issuing from the
cottage door; the coffin, carried by men, came first, the people pressing
hurriedly after--among them one whom I instinctively felt to be the
clergyman--a thick-set man with hair turning white, and a most noble,
benignant face. As the procession formed he took his place at the head;
Daniel and his mother climbing into a wagon directly behind the hearse;
the former looked utterly broken down, as if the light of his eyes had
verily been quenched.
The procession then moved slowly along, and in a short time we turned out
of the Mill Road, and into a beautiful shady street along the water's
edge. I watched the sunlight on the shimmering waters, and far across,
where one of the wooded headlands looked down into the sea, the green
trees made such a picture on the water that, in watching this perfect bit
of landscape, I found myself forgetting the solemn occasion, and the
sorrowing heart of the solitary mourner, while I planned to come there
the very next day with my sketch book, and secure this gem to send to my
favorite teacher as a specimen of my new surroundings. And then fancy got
painting her own pictures as to what my work in this new life with its
greatly altered meaning should be, and before we had reached the grave's
edge I had mapped out my ongoings for a long stretch of the future, and
that in such eager, worldly fashion that I almost forgot that at the end
of all this bright-hued future there lay for me, as well as for Daniel
Blake's wife, an open grave.
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