"
Then he set me down, saying,
"Now you must go to bed, and dream about the pretty things. I will tell
you a lot of stories about them afterward."
We had a way of calling any kind of statement _a story_.
I never cared to ask how it was that, seeing all the same I had done the
wrong thing, the whole weight of it was gone from me. So utterly was it
gone, that I did not even inquire whether I ought so to let it pass from
me. It was nowhere. In the fire of my uncle's love to me and mine to him,
the thing vanished. It was annihilated. Should I not be a creature
unworthy of life, if, now in my old age, I, who had such an uncle in my
childhood, did not with my very life believe in God?
I have wondered whether, if my father had lived to bring me up instead of
my uncle, I should have been very different; but the useless speculation
has only driven me to believe that the relations on the surface of life
are but the symbols of far deeper ties, which may exist without those
correspondent external ones. At the same time, now that, being old, I
naturally think of the coming change, I feel that, when I see my father,
I shall have a different feeling for him just because he is my father,
although my uncle did all the fatherly toward me. But we need not trouble
ourselves about our hearts, and all their varying hues and shades of
feeling. Truth is at the root of all existence, therefore everything must
come right if only we are obedient to the truth; and right is the deepest
satisfaction of every creature as well as of God.
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