late November 1882
TO: Louise and Frances Norcross
I hoped to write you before, but mother's dying almost stunned my spirit.
I have answered a few inquiries of love, but written little intuitively. She was scarcely the aunt you knew. The great mission of pain had been ratified - cultivated to tenderness by persistent sorrow, so that a larger mother died than had she died before. There was no earthly parting. She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called "the infinite."
We don't know where she is, though so many tell us.
I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker - that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power still farther to surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all is silence. . . .
Mother was very beautiful when she had died. Seraphs are solemn artists. The illumination that comes but once paused upon her features, and it seemed like hiding a picture to lay her in the grave; but the grass that received my father will suffice his guest, the one he asked at the altar to visit him all his life.
I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea. . . . Thank you for remembering me. Remembrance - mighty word.
"Thou gavest it to me from the foundation of the world."