So they both, caterpillar and rose, were gone; but the memory of them
stays, green--yes, and fragrant--not alone with Fontenette, and not only
with Senda besides, but with us also. How often I recall the talks on
theology I had used sometimes to let myself fall into with the little
unsuccessful mistress of "rose-es" who first brought the miser of
knowledge into our garden, and whenever I do so I wonder, and wonder, and
lose my bearings and find and lose them again, and wonder and wonder--what
God has done with the entomologist.
We never had to tell Fontenette that he was widowed. We had only to be
long enough silent, and when he ceased, for a time, to get better, and
rather lost the strength he had been gaining, and on entering his room we
found him always with his face to the wall, we saw that he knew. So for
his sake I was glad when one day, without facing round to me, his hand
tightened on mine in a wild tremor and he groaned, "Tell it me--tell it."
I told it. I thought it well to give him one of her messages and withhold
the rest, like the unscrupulous friend I always try to be; and when he had
heard quite through--"Tell him I died loving him and blessing him for the
unearned glorious love he gave me all our days"--he made as if to say the
word was beyond all his deserving, turned upon his face, and soaked the
pillow with his tears.
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