One after another her children died as babies.

At last came one who lived, and then the mother began to die.

She was one of those lowly women who apply the severity born of their creed to themselves, and spend only the love born of the indwelling Spirit upon their neighbors.

She was rather melancholy, but hoped as much as she could, and when she could not hope did not stand still, but walked on in the dark.

I think when the sun rises upon them, some people will be astonished to find how far they have got in the dark.
Her husband, without verifying for himself one of the things it was his business to teach others, was yet held in some sort of communion with sacred things by his love for his suffering wife, and his admiration of her goodness and gentleness.