"
Tremulously sweet it drifted out over the garden and blended with the aroma in
the air. The wounded man smiled through his pain.
Raising her tear-stained face at last, Sister Wynfreda said humbly, "God
pardon me if I sin in my grief, but to me it seems so bitter a thing when
trouble comes upon the young. The first fall of the young bird in its flight,
the first blow that startles the young horse,--I flinch before them as before
my own wounds. When the light of the fair young day dies before the noon, I
feel the shadow in my heart; and it saddens me to find a flower that worms
have eaten in the bud and robbed of its brief life in the sun. How much more,
then, shall I grieve for the blighting of this human flower? I declare with
truth that the first time I saw her my heart went out to her in a love which
taught me how mothers feel. Her freshness and gladness have fed my starved
heart like wine. I cannot bear that trouble should crush them out of her in
the very flower of her youth; I cannot bear that tears should wear channels
down her soft cheeks and dim the brightness of her eyes. Sooner would I give
what remains to me of life! Sister, do I sin? Do I seem to murmur against His
will? But I have grown used to suffering, while she--what has she known but
love? Oh, have I not suffered enough for both? Could she not have been
spared?" Her voice mounted to a cry of exceeding bitterness.
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