La Corriveau cared nothing for the recollection. It was
not terrible to her, and God made no sign; but in his great book of
account, of which the life of every man and woman forms a page, it
was written down and remembered.
On the secret tablets of our memory, which is the book of our life,
every thought, word, and deed, good or evil, is written down
indelibly and forever; and the invisible pen goes on writing day
after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, every thought, even
the idlest, every fancy the most evanescent: nothing is left out of
our book of life which will be our record in judgment! When that
book is opened and no secrets are hid, what son or daughter of Adam
is there who will not need to say, "God be merciful?"
La Corriveau came suddenly upon the gray stone. It startled her,
for its rude contour, standing up in the pale moonlight, put on the
appearance of a woman. She thought she was discovered, and she
heard a noise; but another glance reassured her. She recognized the
stone, and the noise she had heard was only the scurrying of a hare
among the dry leaves.
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