Day after day
that lady toils; and the only word of thanks she receives is perhaps a
whine from some woman who wishes to cajole her into bestowing some
gift. These sisters of Sorrow do not need thanks any more than they
need pity; they frankly recognise the baseness of ill-reared human
nature, and they go on trustfully in the hope that maybe things may
grow slowly better. They meet death calmly; they hide their own
sorrow, and even their pity is disciplined into usefulness. The men of
the good company are the same. They have resigned all the lighter joys
of earth, they are calm, and they let the unutterable sadness of the
world spur them on only to quiet efforts after righteousness. Think
what it must be for a man to leave the warm encompassment of the
cheerful day and pass composedly to a gloom which is relieved only by
the inner light that shines from the soul! Were not the hearts of the
heroes pure, they must grow cynical as they looked on the evil mass of
roguery, idleness, foulness, and cunning that seethes around them. But
they have passed the portal beyond which peace is found; and the
sorrow wherewith they gaze on their hapless fellow-men is tinctured
neither by scorn nor weariness.
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