Closing her eyes she would summon the familiar
image and vision of the murdered boy, always coming so quickly, so
vividly, that she had brought herself to believe that it was not a mere
creation of her own mind and of remorse, a memory, but that he was
actually there with her. Moving her hand over the rough stone she would
by and by let it rest, pressing it on the stone, and would say, Now I
have your hand in mine, and am looking with my soul's eyes into yours,
listen again to the words I have spoken so many times. You would not be
here if you did not remember me and pity and even love me still. Know
then that I am now alone in the world, that I am hated by the world
because of your bitter death. And there is not now one living being in
the world that I love, for I have ceased to love even my own boy, your
old beloved playmate, seeing that he has long been taken from me and
taught with all others to despise and hate me. And of all those who
inhabit the regions above, in all that innumerable multitude of angels
and saints, and of all who have died on earth and been forgiven, you
alone have any feeling of compassion for me and can intercede for me.
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