tell?  It  seems  to  me  the  true  painter  keeps  his
pictures  in  harmony  not  by  mixing  the  colours  on
the  palette,  but  by  blending  them  on  the  canvass,
not  by  painting  in  leaden  monotonous  grays,  but  by
interweaving  and  contrasting  countless  tints  of  pure
and  varied  colour.  And  in  nature,  in  history,  in
life,  it  seems  to  me  the  Creator  does  the  same.
Yes,  God  forbid  that  in  lamenting  what  we  lost
I  should  blaspheme  the  highest  love — the  love  which,
as  Aunt  Gretel  says,  takes  every  image  of  human
affection,  and  fills  and  overfills  it,  and  casts  it  away
as  too  shallow;  in  its  unutterable  intensity  putting
as  it  were  a  tender  paradox  of  slander  on  even  a
mother's  love  for  her  babes,  and  saying,  "  They  may
forget,  yet  will  not  I."

For  that  love,  we  believe,  gave  and  took  away,
and  has  led  us  through  fasting  and  feasting,  dan
gers  and  droughts,  Marahs  and  Elims,  chastenings
and  cherishings,  ever  since.
CHAPTER  III.
