The bright sunlight, the waving trees, the joyous notes of the
feathered songsters seemed a mockery. Their stricken hearts cried out
to all the beautiful things of nature,--
"How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?
How can ye sing, ye little birds, and I so weary, fu' o' care?"
Towards evening on the third day of suspense the master returned fresh
from the prison, weary, ragged, dirty, and utterly woe-begone, for he
had been set at liberty only to learn that liberty was but an empty
sound. Sadly he confirmed the story of the surrender. The kindly eyes
still strove to cheer, but their happy light was forever quenched. The
firm lip quivered not as he told to the sorrowing women the woful
tale, but the iron had entered his soul and rankled there until its
fatal work was accomplished. Ah, many a noble spirit shrunk appalled
from the "frowning Providence" which then and long afterwards
_utterly_ hid the face of a merciful and loving Father. And yet, as
mother Nature with tender hands and loving care soon effaces all
traces of havoc and desolation, creating new beauties in lovely
profusion to cover even the saddest ruins, so it is wisely ordered
that time shall bring healing to wounded hearts.
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