it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when it turns,—it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."
"It shall be stopped,—your tide must not turn so soon,—nineteen is too young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work, and pray, and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways,—it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo, rebelliously,—for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I'll try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,—
"You'll tell them this, when we go home?"
"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.
"Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love
