"So I will sever thee from my life," she repeated, looking at the shattered rose. "Ah, it can never bloom again!"
And with the thought came a sudden frightful realization of what had happened. She sprang up and looked wildly about her. "I must find him! It cannot, cannot be!" Then she sank feebly upon her knees beside the bench, and buried her face in her hands.
Is it for naught that misery instinctively assumes this attitude? Nay, rather, it is a divine impulse of the suffering soul, a blind and voiceless feeling after a hand in the darkness. And the hand is always there.
To Anna thus bowed there came at length the thought of God, of Jesus, the all-Comforter; of Stephen, his dark eyes full of loving light; of Mary, the mother of Jesus, like herself, desolate. And presently, though she scarce knew why, she grew quite calm and strong. She arose. "I will go," she said aloud, "to them; they will tell me what I must do."
And so it was that she came to the house of John, the beloved disciple, where abode Mary, whom the dying Lord had given into his keeping, and with them Peter, and Andrew his brother, also Stephen.
"I am desolate," she said humbly, "for my husband hath cast me off, because I believe that the crucified Jesus is the Messiah of Israel."
"Then art thou welcome here," said the master of the house, gravely. But Mary fell on her neck and kissed her, and she wept with her, because she knew that tears are healing, if only they be wiped away by the hand of God.
And so, after many days, there came to her peace; nay, more, there came joy. Involuntarily songs broke from her lips, lips for many years silent; she smiled often even when alone, for a strange delight filled her soul, her deep eyes shone like stars.
Stephen saw the change in her and he rejoiced.
"The Lord is with thee, mother of my Titus," he said, tenderly.
"I scarce know why I am so happy," she replied. "Is it meet that I should rejoice when my son is dead, and when I am more desolate than a widow?"
"It is the gift of him who sitteth at the right hand of the Father," said Stephen. "Did he not say, ’Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ And this good word of peace he left with his chosen ones on the very night before his death. The world cannot give peace in the midst of sorrow, but he can, and he hath given it unto thee, beloved. And thou dost rejoice, and thy joy shall no one take from thee."