Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.
I saw her once again.

She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands--a sweet smile was on her lips.
The rector stood there with me.
"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word--murdered." "Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven.
Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin?
The sweetest flower that grows." "No; I do not know." "The flower of divine forgiveness.

I know, although you have never told me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself.

I do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so." After a long time I did it.

I forgave them.