How would the mother's joy be marred, as the object of her tender solicitude and affection was sporting by her side, or as she hung over the infant cradle, if she could pry with certainty into the future, and read the mournful sequel of that little history, the lingering sickness, the early grave, the blighted hopes, the desolated household, the broken heart. To know the future, would convert the few brief years of possession of her blessing, into consecutive hours of agony, the consciousness and foreknowledge that every moment was drawing nearer the fatal one sitting by Time's sand-glass and marking grain by grain, as they dropped and fell, until the last grain of the diminishing heap announced, "The long-dreaded hour has arrived!"
But, thank God that the future is veiled! The storm and coming wreck are concealed, in order that the calm of the present waveless sea may be enjoyed.
Yes, we again say, thank God for hiding the future, and allowing us only to be conversant with the joys and sorrows of today.