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A LETTER FROM THE POST.
Hipolito. Is your wife then departed?
Orlando. She's an old dweller in those high countries, yet not
from me: here, she's here; a good couple are seldom parted. -- DEKKER.
What wonderful things letters are! In trembling and hope the
fingers unclasp, and the folded sheet drops into -- no, not the
post-office letter-box -- but into space.
I have read a story somewhere of a poor child that dropped a letter
into the post-office, addressed to Jesus Christ in Heaven. And it
reached him, and the child had her answer. For was it not Christ
present in the good man or woman -- I forget the particulars of the
story -- who sent the child the help she needed? There was no
necessity for him to answer in person, as in the case of Abgarus,
king of Edessa.
Out of space from somewhere comes the answer. Such letters as those
given in a previous chapter, are each a spirit-cry sent out, like a
Noah's dove, into the abyss; and the spirit turns its ear, where its
mouth had been turned before, and leans listening for the
spirit-echo -- the echo with a soul in it -- the answering voice which
out of the abyss will enter by the gate now turned to receive it.
Whose will be the voice? What will be the sense? What chords on
the harp of life have been struck afar off by the arrow-words of the
letter? What tones will they send back to the longing, hungering
ear? The mouth hath spoken, that the fainting ear may be filled by
the return of its words through the alembic of another soul.
One cause of great uneasiness to Hugh was, that, for some time after
a reply might have been expected, he received no answer from David
Elginbrod. At length, however, a letter arrived, upon the
hand-writing of which he speculated in vain, perplexed with a
resemblance in it to some writing that he knew; and when he opened
it, he found the following answer to his own:
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