It drew sustainment from the dead hand in his grasp, and cowered down to the earth claiming all we touch.

He tried to summon vision of a soaring spirituality; he could not; his understanding and senses were too stricken.

He prayed on.

His prayer was as a little fountain, not rising high out of earth, and in the clutch of death; but its being it had from death, his love gave it food.
Prayer is power within us to communicate with the desired beyond our thirsts.

The goodness of the dear good mother gone was in him for assurance of a breast of goodness to receive her, whatever the nature of the eternal secret may be.