Certainly
my father did not like to die, though he now wished to do so. My
mother, later, often spoke, in consolation for us and for herself, of
his dread of helpless old age; and she tried to be glad that his
desire to disappear before decrepitude had been fulfilled. But such
wise wishes are not carried out as we might choose. The sudden
transformation which took place in my father after his coming to
America was like an instant's change in the atmosphere from sunshine
to dusky cold. I have never had the least difficulty in explaining it
to myself.
One large item in the sum of his regrets was his unexpectedly narrowed
means. It would have required a generous amount of money to put The
Wayside and its grounds into the delectable order at first
contemplated, to bring them into any sort of English perfection, and
my parents found that they could not afford it; and so all resulted in
semi-comfort and rough appearances. This narrowing of means was caused
not a little by the want of veracity of a person whom my father had
trusted with entire affection and a very considerable loan, about
which we none of us ever heard again. A crust becomes more than
proverbially dry under these circumstances.
My mother bore every reverse nobly. She writes, after her husband's
death: "I have 'enjoyed life,' and 'its hard pinches' have not too
deeply bitten into my heart. But this has been because I am not only
hopeful and of indomitable credence by nature, but because this
temperament, together with the silent ministry of pain, has helped me
to the perfect, the unshadowed belief in the instant providence of
God; in his eternal love, patience, sweetness; in his shining face,
never averted.
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