CHAPTER V.
Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?—Heb. 1: 14.
How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant,
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant.
And all for love, and nothing for reward;
O why should heavenly God to men have such regard!
—[Edmund Spenser.
When I aroused from my sleep it was in the gray light of earth's morning, and I was standing on the doorstep of the house in Kentville that my brother and I had left together, some thirty-six hours before, reckoned by earth-time. I shuddered a little with a strange chill when I saw where we were, and turned quickly to my brother Frank, who stood beside me. He put his arm about me, and with a reassuring smile, said:
"For their sakes be brave and strong, and try to make them understand your blessed change."
I did not try to answer, though I took heart, and entered with him into the house. Everything was very quiet—no one seemed astir. My brother softly opened a door immediately to the right of the entrance, and motioned me to enter. I did so, and he closed it behind me, remaining himself outside.
Something stood in the center of the room, and I soon discovered that it was a pall. It was a great relief to me to see that it was not black, but a soft shade of gray. Someone was kneeling beside it, and as I slowly approached I saw it was my dear son. He was kneeling upon one knee, with his elbow resting on the other knee, and his face buried in his hand. One arm was thrown across the casket, as though he were taking a last embrace of his "little mother." I saw that the form within the casket lay as though peacefully sleeping, and was clad in silver gray, with soft white folds about the neck and breast. I was grateful that they had remembered my wishes so well.
I put my arms about the neck of my darling son, and drew his head gently against my breast, resting my cheek upon his bowed head. Then I whispered, "Dearest, I am here beside you—living, breathing, strong and well. Will you not turn to me, instead of to that lifeless form in the casket? It is only the worn-out tenement—I am your living mother."
He lifted his head as though listening; then, laying his hand tenderly against the white face in the casket he whispered, "Poor, dear little mother!" and again dropped his face into both hands, while his form shook with convulsive sobs.
As I strove to comfort him, the door opened and his lovely girl-wife entered. I turned to meet her as she came slowly towards us. Midway in the room we met, and, taking both her hands tenderly in mine, I whispered, "Comfort him, darling girl, as only you can; he needs human love."
She paused a moment irresolutely, looking directly into my eyes, then passed on and knelt beside him, laying her upturned face against his shoulder. I saw his arm steal around her and draw her closely to him, then I passed from the room, feeling comforted that they were together.
Outside the door I paused an instant, then, slowly ascending the stairs, I entered the once familiar room, whose door was standing ajar. All remained as when I had left it, save that no still form lay upon the white bed. As I expected, I found my precious husband in this room. He sat near the bay window, his arm resting upon the table, and his eyes bent sorrowfully upon the floor. My heart's best friend sat near him and seemed trying to comfort him. When I entered the room our brother Frank arose from a chair close beside him and passed out, with a sympathetic look at me. I went at once to my dear husband, put my arms about him, and whispered:
"Darling! darling, I am here!"
He stirred restlessly without changing his position. Virginia said, as though continuing a conversation, "I am sure she would say you left nothing undone that could possibly be done for her."
"She is right," I whispered.
"Still she was alone at the last," he moaned.
"Yes, dear, but who could know it was the last? She sank so suddenly under the pain. What can I say to comfort you? Oh, Will, come home with us! She would want you to, I am sure."
He shook his head sadly, while the tears were in his eyes, as he said: "Work is my only salvation. I must go back in a very few days."
She said no more, and he leaned back wearily in his easy-chair. I crept more closely to him and suddenly his arms closed about me. I whispered, "There, dear, do you not see that I am really with you?"
He was very still, and the room was very quiet but for the ticking of my little clock still standing upon the dressing-case. Presently I knew by his regular breathing that he had found a short respite from his sorrow. I slipped gently from his arms and went to my friend, kneeling beside her, and folding my arms about her.
"Virginia, Virginia! You know I am not dead! Why do you grieve?"
She looked over at the worn face of the man before her, then dropped her face into her hand, whispering, as though she had heard me and would answer:
"Oh, Bertha darling, how could you leave him?"
"I am here, dearest! Do realize that I am here!"
She did not heed me, but sat absorbed in sorrowful thought.
A few minutes later a stranger entered the room, and in a low voice said something about its being "near train time," and brought my husband his hat. He arose and gave his arm to Virginia, and, our son and his wife meeting them at the door, they started to descend the stairs. Just then my husband paused and cast one sorrowful glance around the room, his face white with pain. Our dear daughter stepped quickly to him, and, placing both arms about his neck, drew his face down to hers. ("God bless her in all things!" I softly prayed.) An instant they stood thus, then stifling his emotion, they all passed down the stairs into the room I had first entered.
I kept very close to my dear husband, and never for a single instant left him through all the solemn and impressive services; through the sad journey to our old home; the last rites at the grave; the after-meeting with friends; and his final return to the weary routine of labor. How thankful I was that I had been permitted to taste, during that wonderful day in heaven, the joys of the blessed life! How else could I ever have passed calmly through those trying scenes, and witnessed the sorrow of those so dear to my heart? I recognize the wisdom and mercy of the Father in having so ordered it.
I soon found that my husband was right; work was his great refuge. During the day the routine of labor kept brain and hands busy, leaving the heart but little opportunity to indulge its sorrow. Night was his trying time. Kind friends would stay with him till bedtime; after that he was alone. He would turn restlessly on his pillow, and often arise and go into the adjoining room that had formerly been mine, and gaze upon the vacant bed with tearful eyes. It took all my powers to in any degree soothe and quiet him. After a time my brother Frank and I arranged to spend alternate nights with him, that he might never be alone, and especially were we with him upon his journeys. We found to our great joy that our influence over him was hourly growing stronger, and we were able to guide and help him in many ways.
One night as I was silently watching beside him while he slept, many months after he was alone, I became conscious that evil threatened him. He was sleeping very peacefully, and I knew his dreams were happy ones by the smile upon his dear face. I passed into the hall of the hotel where he was staying, and found it dense with smoke. I hastened back to him and called, and tried to shake him, but he slept on peacefully. Then I called with all my strength, "Will!" close to his ear.
Instantly he started up and said, "Yes, dear, I am coming!" just as he used to do when I called at night. Then in a moment he sank back with a sigh upon his pillow, murmuring, "What a vivid dream! I never heard her voice more distinctly in life."
"Will!" I again called, pulling him by the hand with all my strength, "rise quickly! Your life is in danger!"
In an instant he was out of bed, upon his feet, and hurriedly drawing on his clothes. "I am sure I cannot tell why I am doing this," he muttered to himself. "I only feel that I must! That surely was her voice I heard."
"Hurry! Hurry!" I urged.
He opened the door and met, not only the smoke, but tongues of flame.
"Do not try the stairway—come!" and I drew him past the stairway, and through a narrow entrance to a second hall beyond, and down a second flight of stairs, filled with smoke, but as yet no flame. Another flight still below these, then into the open air, where he staggered, faint and exhausted, on to the sidewalk, and was quickly helped by friends into a place of safety.
"I am sure I cannot tell what wakened me," he afterward said to a friend. "I dreamed I heard my wife calling me, and before I knew it I was dressing myself."
"You did hear her, I have no doubt," she said. "Are they not 'all ministering spirits, sent forth to do service for the sake of them that shall inherit salvation'? What lovelier service could she do than to thus save the life of one so dear to her, whose earth-work was not yet done? Yes, you did hear her call you in time to escape. Thank God for such ministrations."
"Yes, it must be so," he answered, with a happy look. "Thank God indeed."
After this he yielded much more readily to our influence, and thus began to enjoy, while yet upon earth, the reunion that so surely awaited us in the blessed life. I often went also to the home of our dear children, but there was so much to make them happy that they did not need me as their father did. Sometimes in hours of great physical prostration, especially during the absence of his wife, I found that I could quiet the overwrought nerves of my dear son, and lead his tired mind to restful thoughts; but with youth and strength and love to support him, the time had not yet come when my ministrations were essential.
CHAPTER VI.
Many friends that traveled with me
Reached Heaven's portal long ago;
One by one they left me battling
With the dark and crafty foe.
They are watching at the portal,
They are waiting at the door;
Waiting only for my coming—
The beloved ones gone before.
—[Mrs. H. M. Reasoner.
The first time I returned to the dear heavenly home after my long delay on earth, as I approached the entrance, in the company of my brother Frank, we saw a tall young man standing close by the open gate, looking wistfully the way we came. As we drew near, he said in an almost pathetic voice:
"Is my mother coming?"
A closer scrutiny revealed his identity, and I exclaimed with joy, extending both hands to him, "My dear Carroll!"
He smiled a bright welcome as he extended his hands, but said wistfully, "I so hoped my mother would return with you, aunt, when you came back. Did you see her?"
"Once only, for a brief moment. She is very happy and bears her years well. She will come to you now before long, but then you know it will be forever."
"Yes, I know," he answered brightly. "I will be patient. But," he added confidentially, "I so want her to see the lovely home I myself am building for her. Will you come and see it?"
"Of course I will, gladly."
"Now?"
"Yes, if I may"; looking at my brother for his sanction.
He nodded his head pleasantly as he said: "That is right, Carroll. Have her help you in every way you can. I will leave you two together, and you will bring her to me later?"
"Indeed, yes," said my nephew; and we went away happily together.
"Where is this wonderful house, Carroll?"
"Not very far beyond Mrs. Wickham's," he said.
We soon reached it, and I was truly charmed with it in every way. It was fashioned much like my brother Nell's home, and was, like it, built of polished woods. It was only partly finished, and was most artistically done. Although uncompleted, I was struck with the fact that everything was perfect so far as finished. There was no debris anywhere; no chips, no shavings, no dust. The wood seemed to have been perfectly prepared elsewhere—where, I have no idea. The pieces were made to fit accurately, like the parts of a great puzzle. It required much skill and artistic taste to properly adjust each to its place. This, my nephew, who even in the earthly life was quite a mechanical genius, seemed to have no difficulty in doing, and the house was slowly growing into beauty and symmetry. After showing me all over the house, he at last drew aside the hangings before an entrance, beyond which were two rooms, not only entirely finished, but beautifully furnished as well.
"I finished and furnished these rooms complete, so that if mother came before the house was ready, she could occupy them at once. You know there is no noise from workmen here; no hammering, no unwelcome sounds."
I thought at once of the Temple of Jerusalem, where, during its erection, there was "neither hammer, nor axe, nor any tool of iron heard in the house."
"It is very beautiful, my dear boy," I said enthusiastically. "It will give her great joy to know you did it for her. But what is this—a fireplace?" pausing before a lovely open chimney, wherein wood was piled ready to be lighted. "Is it ever cold enough here for fires?"
"It is never cold," he answered, "but the fire here never sends out unneeded warmth. We have its cheer and beauty and glow, without any of its discomforts. You remember my mother loves to sit by an open fire; so I have arranged this for her."
"It is charming! But you did not make the stained-glass windows also?"
"No, I have a friend who has been taught that art, and we exchange work. He helps me with the windows, and I in turn help him with his fine woodwork and inlaying. I am going to make a 'flower room' for my mother similar to yours, only of lilies and violets, which will retain their perfume always."
"How lovely! I want to thank you, dear Carroll, for your share in our 'flower room.' It is the most exquisite work I ever saw; and it is doubly so when I remember whose hands fashioned it."
"It was a labor of love with us all," he said simply.
"That is what enhances its beauty for me," I said. "But sit here by me now, and tell me about yourself. Do you spend all your time at this delightful work?"
"Oh, no, indeed! Perhaps what we used to call two or three hours daily. Much of my time is still spent with my Grandfather R——. I do not know what I should have done when I first came here, but for him. I was so ignorant about this life, and came so suddenly."
"Yes, dear boy, I know," I said sympathetically.
"He met me at the very entrance, and took me at once home, where he and grandma did everything possible to instruct and help me. But I was, I am still, far below what I ought to be. I would give a year out of this blessed life—I would even go back to the old life for an entire year—if I only could go to my old friends, or better, into every Sunday-school in the world, and beseech the girls and boys to try to understand and profit by the instruction there received. Why, I used to go to Sunday-school, Sunday after Sunday, help sing the hymns, and read the lesson, and listen to all that was said; and I really enjoyed every moment of the time. Sometimes I would feel a great longing after a better life, but there seemed to be no one to especially guide or help me, and, the greater part of the time, what I heard one Sunday was never once spoken of or even thought of till another Sunday came, so that the impression made was very transient. Why do not boys and girls talk more together about what they hear at Sunday-school? We were all ready enough to talk about a show of any kind, after it was over, but seldom of the Sunday-school, when together socially. Why do not teachers take more interest in the daily lives of their scholars? Why is there so little really helpful talk in ordinary home life? Oh, I wish I could go back and tell them this!"
His face beamed with enthusiasm as he talked, and I, too, wished it might be possible for him to do as he desired. But alas! "they will not be persuaded even if one arise from the dead," I thought.
"It is now time for me to go with my grandfather," he said, rising, "but we will walk together as far as your home; and you will let me often see you, will you not?"
"Gladly," I answered, as we set forth.
We still conversed of many things, as we walked, and when we parted at the door I said, "I am soon to learn how to weave lovely draperies; then I can help you, when you are ready for them."
"That will make my work more delightful still," was his reply, as he hastened on in the direction of my father's home.
CHAPTER VII.
She is not dead—the child of our affection—
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
—[Longfellow.
Hark! 'tis the voice of angels
Borne in a song to me,
Over the fields of glory,
Over the jasper sea!
—[W. H. Doane.
As time passed, and I grew more accustomed to the heavenly life around me, I found its loveliness unfolded to me like the slow opening of a rare flower. Delightful surprises met me at every turn. Now a dear friend, from whom I had parted years ago in the earth-life, would come unexpectedly upon me with cordial greeting; now one—perhaps on earth greatly admired, but from whom I had held aloof, from the fear of unwelcome intrusion—would approach me, showing the lovely soul so full of responsive kindness and congenial thought, that I could but feel a pang of regret for what I had lost. Then the clear revelation of some truth, only partly understood in life, though eagerly sought for, would stand out clear and strong before me, overwhelming me with its lustre, and perhaps showing the close tie linking the earth-life with the divine. But the most wonderful to me was the occasional meeting with some one whom I had never hoped to meet "over there," who, with eager handclasp and tearful eyes, would pour forth his earnest thanks for some helpful word, some solemn warning, or even some stern rebuke, that had turned him, all unknown to myself, from the paths of sin into the "life everlasting." Oh, the joy to me of such a revelation! Oh, the regret that my earth-life had not been more full of such work for eternity!
My first impulse daily on arousing from happy, blissful rest, was to hasten to the "river of life" and plunge into its wonderful waters, so refreshing, so invigorating, so inspiring. With a heart full of thanksgiving and lips full of joyful praise, morning after morning, sometimes in company with my brother, sometimes alone, I hastened thither, returning always full of new life and hope and purpose to our home, where for a time each day I listened to the entrancing revelations and instructions of my brother. One morning, soon after my return from my first visit to earth, as I was on the way to the river, my voice joined to the wonderful anthem of praise everywhere sounding, I saw a lovely young girl approaching me swiftly, with outstretched arms.
"Dear, dear Aunt Bertha!" she called, as she drew near, "do you not know me?"
"My little Mae!" I cried, gathering the dainty creature into my arms. "Where did you spring from so suddenly, dear? Let me look at you again!" holding her a moment at arm's length, only to draw her again tenderly to me.
"You have grown very beautiful, my child. I may say this to you here without fear, I am sure. You were always lovely; you are simply radiant now. Is it this divine life?"
"Yes," she said modestly and sweetly; "but most of all the being near the Savior so much."
"Ah, yes, that is it—the being near Him! That will make any being radiant and beautiful," I said.
"He is so good to me; so generous, so tender! He seems to forget how little I have done to deserve his care."
"He knows you love him, dear heart; that means everything to him."
"Love him! Oh, if loving him deserves reward, I am sure I ought to have every wish of my heart, for I love him a thousandfold better than anything in earth or heaven. I would die for him!"
The sweet face grew surpassingly radiant and beautiful as she talked, and I began to dimly understand the wonderful power of Christ among the redeemed in heaven. This dear child, so lovely in all mortal graces, so full of earth's keenest enjoyments during the whole of her brief life—pure and good, as we count goodness below, yet seemingly too absorbed in life's gayeties to think deeply of the things she yet in her heart revered and honored, now in this blessed life counted the privilege of loving Christ, of being near him, beyond every other joy! And how that love refined and beautified the giver! As a great earthly love always shines through the face and elevates the whole character of the one who loves, so this divine love uplifts and glorifies the giver, until not only the face but the entire person radiates the glory that fills the heart.
"Come with me to the river, Mae," I said presently, after we had talked together for some time; "come with me for a delightful plunge."
"Gladly," she said; "but have you ever been to the lake or the sea?"
"The lake or the sea?" I echoed. "No indeed. Are there a lake and sea here?"
"Certainly there are," said Mae, with a little pardonable pride that she should know more of the heavenly surroundings than I. "Shall we go to the lake to-day, and leave the sea for another day? Which shall it be?"
"Let it be the lake to-day," I said.
So, turning in an entirely different direction from the path that led to the river, we walked joyously on, still talking as we went. So much to ask, so much to recall, so much to look forward to with joy!
Once she turned to me and asked quickly:
"When is my Uncle Will coming?"
My hand closed tightly over hers, and a sob almost rose in my throat, though I answered calmly:
"That is in God's hands alone; we may not question."
"Yes, I know. His will is always right; but I so long to see my dear uncle again; and to 'long' is not to repine."
She had grown so womanly, so wise, this child of tender years, since we parted, that it was a joy to talk with her. I told her of my sad errand to earth, and the sorrow of the dear ones I had left.
"Yes, yes, I know it all!" she whispered, with her soft arms about me. "But it will not be long to wait. They will come soon. It never seems long to wait for anything here. There is always so much to keep one busy; so many pleasant duties, so many joys—oh, it will not be long!"
Thus she cheered and comforted me as we walked through the ever-varying and always perfect landscape. At length she cried, lifting her arm and pointing with her rosy finger:
"Behold! Is it not divinely beautiful?"
I caught my breath, then stopped abruptly and covered my face with my hands to shield my eyes from the glorified scene. No wonder my brother had not sooner brought me to this place; I was scarcely yet spiritually strong enough to look upon it. When I again slowly lifted my head, Mae was standing like one entranced. The golden morning light rested upon her face, and, mingling with the radiance that had birth within, almost transfigured her. Even she, so long an inhabitant here, had not yet grown accustomed to its glory.
"Look, darling auntie! It is God's will that you should see," she softly whispered, not once turning her eyes away from the scene before her. "He let me be the one to show you the glory of this place!"
I turned and looked, like one but half awakened. Before us spread a lake as smooth as glass, but flooded with a golden glory caught from the heavens, that made it like a sea of molten gold. The blossom- and fruit-bearing trees grew down to its very border in many places, and far, far away, across its shining waters, arose the domes and spires of what seemed to be a mighty city. Many people were resting upon its flowery banks, and on the surface of the water were boats of wonderful structure, filled with happy souls, and propelled by an unseen power. Little children, as well as grown persons, were floating upon or swimming in the water; and as we looked a band of singing cherubs, floating high overhead, drifted across the lake, their baby voices borne to us where we stood, in notes of joyful praise.
"Come," said Mae, seizing my hand, "let us join them"; and we hastened onward.
"Glory and honor!" sang the child voices. "Dominion and power!" caught up and answered the voices of the vast multitude together, and in the strain I found that Mae and I were joining. The cherub band floated onward, and away in the distance we caught the faint melody of their sweet voices, and the stronger cadence of the response from those waiting below.
We stood upon the margin of the lake, and my cheeks were tear-bedewed and my eyes dim with emotion. I felt weak as a little child; but oh, what rapture, what joy unspeakable filled and overmastered me! Was I dreaming? Or was this indeed but another phase of the immortal life?
Mae slipped her arm about my neck and whispered, "Dearest, come. After the rapture—rest."
I yielded to her passively; I could not do otherwise. She led me into the water, down, down into its crystal depths, and when it seemed to me we must be hundreds of feet beneath the surface, she threw herself prostrate and bade me do the same. I did so, and immediately we began to slowly rise. Presently I found that we no longer rose, but were slowly floating in mid-current, many feet still beneath the surface. Then appeared to me a marvel. Look where I would, perfect prismatic rays surrounded me. I seemed to be resting in the heart of a prism; and such vivid yet delicate coloring, mortal eyes never rested upon. Instead of the seven colors, as we see them here, the colors blended in such rare graduation of shades as to make the rays seem almost infinite, or they really were so; I could not decide which.
As I lay watching this marvelous panorama, for the colors deepened and faded like the lights of the aurora borealis, I was attracted by the sound of distant music. Although Mae and I no longer clung together, we did not drift apart, as one would naturally suppose we might, but lay within easy speaking-distance of each other, although few words were spoken by either of us; the silence seemed too sacred to be lightly broken. We lay upon, or rather within, the water, as upon the softest couch. It required no effort whatever to keep ourselves afloat; the gentle undulation of the waves soothed and rested us. When the distant music arrested my attention, I turned and looked at Mae. She smiled back at me, but did not speak. Presently I caught the words, "Glory and honor, dominion and power," and I knew it was still the cherub choir, although they must now be many miles distant. Then the soft tones of a bell—a silver bell with silver tongue—fell on my ear, and as the last notes died away, I whispered:
"Tell me, Mae."
"Yes, dear, I will. The waters of this lake catch the light in a most marvelous manner, as you have seen; a wiser head than mine must tell you why. They also transmit musical sounds—only musical sounds—for a great distance. The song was evidently from the distant shore of the lake."
"And the bell?"
"That is the bell which in the city across the lake calls to certain duties at this hour."
"There never was a sweeter call to duty," I said.
"Yes, its notes are beautiful. Hark! now it rings a chime."
We lay and listened, and as we listened a sweet spell wrapped me round, and I slept as peacefully as a child on its mother's bosom. I awoke with a strange sense of invigoration and strength. It was a feeling wholly dissimilar to that experienced during a bath in the river, yet I could not explain how. Mae said:
"One takes away the last of the earth-life, and prepares us for the life upon which we enter; the other fills us to overflowing with a draught from the Celestial Life itself."
And I think the child was right.
When we emerged from the water we found the banks of the lake almost deserted, every one having gone, at the call of the bell, to the happy duties of the hour. Groups of children still played around in joyous freedom. Some climbed the trees that overhung the water, with the agility of squirrels, and dropped with happy shouts of laughter into the lake, floating around upon its surface like immense and beautiful water-lilies or lotus flowers.
"No fear of harm or danger; no dread of ill, or anxiety lest a mishap occur; security, security and joy and peace! This is indeed the blessed life," I said, as we stood watching the sports of the happy children.
"I often think how we were taught to believe that heaven was where we would wear crowns of gold and stand with harps always in our hands! Our crowns of gold are the halos His blessed presence casts about us; and we do not need harps to accentuate our songs of praise. We do see the crowns, and we do hear the angelic harps, when and as God wills it, but our best worship is to do his blessed will," said Mae as we turned to go.
"You are wise in the lore of heaven, my child," I answered; "how happy I am to learn from one so dear! Tell me all about your life here."
So as we walked she told me the history of her years in heaven her duties, her joys, her friends, her home—with all the old-time freedom. I found her home was distant from our own—far beyond the spires of the great city across the lake—but she added:
"What is distance in heaven? We come and go at will. We feel no fatigue, no haste, experience no delays; it is blessed, blessed!"
Not far from our home we saw a group of children playing upon the grass, and in their midst was a beautiful great dog, over which they were rolling and tumbling with the greatest freedom. As we approached he broke away from them and came bounding to meet us, and crouched and fawned at my very feet with every gesture of glad welcome.
"Do you not know him, auntie?" Mae asked brightly.
"It is dear old Sport!" I cried, stooping and placing my arms about his neck, and resting my head on his silken hair. "Dear old fellow! How happy I am to have you here!"
He responded to my caresses with every expression of delight, and Mae laughed aloud at our mutual joy.
"I have often wondered if I should not some day find him here. He surely deserves a happy life for his faithfulness and devotion in the other life. His intelligence and his fidelity were far above those of many human beings whom we count immortal."
"Hark! 'tis the voice of angels
"Hark! 'tis the voice of angels
Born in a song to me,
Over the fields of glory,
Over the jasper sea!"
"Did he not sacrifice his life for little Will?"
"Yes; he attempted to cross the track in front of an approaching train, because he saw it would pass between him and his little master, and feared he was in danger. It cost his life. He always placed himself between any of us and threatened danger, but Will he seemed to consider his especial charge. He was a gallant fellow—he deserves immortality. Dear, dear old Sport, you shall never leave me again!" I said, caressing him fondly.
At this he sprang to his feet, barking joyously, and gambolled and frolicked before us the rest of the way home, then lay down upon the doorstep, with an upward glance and a wag of his bushy tail, as though to say, "See how I take you at your word!"
"He understands every word we say," said Mae.
"Of course he does; he only lacks speech to make him perfect. I somehow hoped he might find it here."
"He would not be half so interesting if he could talk," said Mae.
"Possibly not. How silken and beautiful his long hair is!"
"He has his bath in the river every day, and it leaves its mark on him also. Do you know I think one of the sweetest proofs we have of the Father's loving care for us is, that we so often find in this life the things which gave us great happiness below. The more unexpected this is, the greater joy it brings. I remember once seeing a beautiful little girl enter heaven, the very first to come of a large and affectionate family. I afterward learned that the sorrowful cry of her mother was, 'Oh, if only we had someone there to meet her, to care for her!' She came, lovingly nestled in the Master's own arms, and a little later, as he sat, still caressing and talking to her, a remarkably fine Angora kitten, of which the child had been very fond, and which had sickened and died some weeks before, to her great sorrow, came running across the grass and sprang directly into her arms, where it lay contentedly. Such a glad cry as she recognized her little favorite, such a hugging and kissing as that kitten received, made joy even in heaven! Who but our loving Father would have thought of such comfort for a little child? She had evidently been a timid child; but now as the children gathered about her, with the delightful freedom they always manifest in the presence of the beloved Master, she, looking up confidingly into the tender eyes above her, began to shyly tell of the marvelous intelligence of her dumb pet, until at last Jesus left her contentedly playing among the flowers with the little companions who had gathered about her. Our Father never forgets us, but provides pleasures and comforts for us all, according to our individual needs."
"When shall I behold the Savior? When shall I meet, face to face, him whom my soul so loveth?" my hungry heart began to cry out in its depths.
Mae, as though understanding the silent cry, placed both arms about my neck, looked tenderly into my eyes, and whispered:
"You, too, dearest, will see him soon. He never delays when the time is ripe for his coming. It will not be long; you, too, will see him soon."
So we parted, each to the duties of the hour.
CHAPTER VIII.
Sae little noo I ken o' blessed, bonnie place,
I only ken it's Hame, whaur we shall see His face
It wad surely be eneuch forever mair to be
In the glory o' His presence, in oor ain countrie.
Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be gangin' noo unto my Savior's breast,
For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
And carries them himsel' to his ain countrie.
—[Mary Lee Demarest.
The following morning my brother said to me, after an interesting hour of instruction:
"Shall we go for the promised visit to Mrs. Wickham now?"
"Indeed, yes!" I answered eagerly; so we at once set forth.
We soon reached her lovely home and found her waiting at the entrance as though expecting us. After a cordial greeting to our friend, my brother said:
"I will leave you together for that 'long talk' for which I know you are both eager, and will go my way to other duties. I will find you, later on, at home." The last remark to me.
"All right," I answered. "I am familiar with the way now, and need no attendance."
After he had gone, my friend took me all over her lovely home, showing me, with great pleasure, the rooms prepared for each beloved member of her earthly household still to come. One very large room, into whose open windows at each end the blossom- and fruit-laden boughs of the immortal trees looked invitingly, was evidently her especial care; she whispered to me, "Douglass always did like a large room. I am sure he will like this one." And I was also sure.
Returning down the broad stairway, we found it entered into a very large music-room, with broad galleries supported by marble columns, running across three sides of it, on a level with the second floor. In this gallery was a number of musical instruments—harps, viols, and some unlike any instruments I had ever seen elsewhere. The room itself was filled with easy-chairs, couches and window-seats, where listeners could rest and hear the sweet harmonies from the galleries.
"My daughter," my friend explained, "who left us in early childhood, has received a fine musical training here, and is fond of gathering in her young friends and giving us quite often a musical treat. You know our old home of Springville has furnished some rare voices for the heavenly choirs. Mary Allis, Will Griggs, and many others you will often hear in this room, I trust."
We re-entered, from this room, the dainty reception hall opening upon the front veranda and outer steps. Here Mrs. Wickham drew me to a seat beside her and said:
"Now, tell me everything of the dear home and all its blessed inmates."
Holding each other's hands as we talked, she questioning, I answering, things too sacred to be repeated here were dwelt upon for hours. At last she said, rising hastily:
"I will leave you for a little while—nay, you must not go," as I would have risen, "there is much yet to be said; wait here, I will return."
I had already learned not to question the judgment of these wiser friends, and yielded to her will. As she passed through the doorway to the inner house, I saw a stranger at the front entrance and arose to meet him. He was tall and commanding in form, with a face of ineffable sweetness and beauty. Where had I seen him before? Surely, surely I had met him since I came. "Ah, now I know!" I thought; "it is St. John, the beloved disciple." He had been pointed out to me one morning by the river-side.
"Peace be unto this house," was his salutation as he entered.
How his voice stirred and thrilled me! No wonder the Master loved him, with that voice and that face!
"Enter. Thou art a welcome guest. Enter, and I will call the mistress," I said, as I approached to bid him welcome.
"Nay, call her not. She knows that I am here; she will return," he said. "Sit thou awhile beside me," he continued, as he saw that I still stood, after I had seen him seated. He arose and led me to a seat near him, and like a child I did as I was bidden; still watching, always watching, the wonderful face before me.
"You have but lately come?" he said.
"Yes, I am here but a short time. So short that I know not how to reckon time as you count it here," I answered.
"Ah, that matters little," he said with a gentle smile. "Many cling always to the old reckoning and the earth-language. It is a link between the two lives; we would not have it otherwise. How does the change impress you? How do you find life here?"
"Ah," I said, "if they could only know! I never fully understood till now the meaning of that sublime passage, 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.' It is indeed past human conception." I spoke with deep feeling.
"'For them that love him'? Do you believe that all Christians truly love him?" he asked. "Do you think they love the Father for the gift of the Son and the Son because of the Father's love and mercy? Or is their worship ofttimes that of duty rather than love?" He spoke reflectively and gently.
"Oh," I said, "you who so well know the beloved Master—who were so loved by him—how can you doubt the love he must inspire in all hearts who seek to know him?"
A radiant glow overspread the wonderful face, which he lifted, looking directly at me—the mist rolled away from before my eyes—and I knew him! With a low cry of joy and adoration, I threw myself at his feet, bathing them with happy tears. He gently stroked my bowed head for a moment, then rising, lifted me to his side.
"My Savior—my King!" I whispered, clinging closely to him.
"Yes, and Elder Brother and Friend," he added, wiping away tenderly the tears stealing from beneath my closed eyelids.
"Yes, yes, 'the chiefest among ten thousand, and the One altogether lovely!'" again I whispered.
"Ah, now you begin to meet the conditions of the new life! Like many another, the changing of faith to sight with you has engendered a little shrinking, a little fear. That is all wrong. Have you forgotten the promise, 'I go to prepare a place for you; that where I am, there ye may be also'? If you loved me when you could not see me except by faith, love me more now when we have really become 'co-heirs of the Father.' Come to me with all that perplexes or gladdens; come to the Elder Brother always waiting to receive you with joy."
Then he drew me to a seat, and conversed with me long and earnestly, unfolding many of the mysteries of the divine life. I hung upon his words; I drank in every tone of his voice; I watched eagerly every line of the beloved face; and I was exalted, uplifted, upborne, beyond the power of words to express. At length with a divine smile, he arose.
"We will often meet," he said; and I, bending over, pressed my lips reverently to the hand still clasping my own. Then laying his hands a moment in blessing upon my bowed head, he passed noiselessly and swiftly from the house.
As I stood watching the Savior's fast-receding figure, passing beneath the flower-laden trees, I saw two beautiful young girls approaching the way he went. With arms intertwining they came, happily conversing together, sweet Mary Bates and Mae Camden. When they saw the Master, with a glad cry they flew to meet him, and as he joyously extended a hand to each, they turned, and each clinging to his hand, one upon either side, accompanied him on his way, looking up trustingly into his face as he talked with them, and apparently conversing with him with happy freedom. I saw his face from time to time in profile, as he turned and looked down lovingly, first upon one, then the other lovely upturned face, and I thought, "That is the way he would have us be with him—really as children with a beloved elder brother." I watched them till the trees hid them from my sight, longing to gather the dear girls to my heart, but knowing his presence was to them then more than aught else; then I turned and passed softly through the house to the beautiful entrance at the rear. Just before I reached the door I met my friend Mrs. Wickham. Before I could speak, she said:
"I know all about it. Do not try to speak; I know your heart is full. I will see you very soon—there, go!" and she pushed me gently to the door.
How my heart blessed her—for it indeed seemed sacrilege to try to talk on ordinary topics after this blessed experience. I did not follow the walk, but kept across the flowery turf, beneath the trees, till I reached home. I found my brother sitting upon the veranda, and as I ascended the steps he rose to meet me. When he looked into my face, he took both hands into his for an instant, and simply said, very gently:
"Ah, I see. You have been with the Master!" and stepped aside almost reverently for me to enter the house.
I hastened to my room, and, dropping the draperies behind me at the door, I threw myself upon the couch, and with closed eyes lived over every instant I had spent in that hallowed Presence. I recalled every word and tone of the Savior's voice, and fastened the instructions he had given me indelibly upon my memory. I seemed to have been lifted to a higher plane of existence, to have drunk deeper draughts from the fountain of all good, since I had met "Him whom my soul loved." It was a long, blessed communion that I held thus with my own soul on that hallowed day. When I looked upon the pictured face above me, I wondered that I had not at once recognized the Christ, the likeness was so perfect. But I concluded that for some wise purpose my "eyes were holden" until it was his pleasure that I should see him as he is.
When at last I arose, the soft golden twilight was about me, and I knelt by my couch, to offer my first prayer in heaven. Up to this time my life there had been a constant thanksgiving—there had seemed no room for petition. Now as I knelt all I could utter over and over, was:
"I thank Thee, blessed Father; I thank Thee, I thank Thee!"
When I at last descended the stairs, I found my brother standing in the great "flower-room," and, going to him, I said softly:
"Frank, what do you do in heaven when you want to pray?"
"We praise!" he answered.
"Then let us praise now," I said.
And standing there, with clasped hands, we lifted up our hearts and voices in a hymn of praise to God; my brother with his clear, strong voice leading, I following. As the first notes sounded, I thought the roof echoed them; but I soon found that other voices blended with ours, until the whole house seemed filled with unseen singers. Such a grand hymn of praise earth never heard. And as the hymn went on, I recognized many dear voices from the past—Will Griggs' pathetic tenor, Mary Allis' exquisite soprano, and many another voice that wakened memories of the long ago. Then as I heard sweet child-voices, and looked up, I saw above us such a cloud of radiant baby faces as flooded my heart with joy. The room seemed filled with them.
"Oh, what a life—what a divine life!" I whispered, as, after standing until the last lingering notes had died away, my brother and I returned to the veranda and sat in the golden twilight.
"You are only in the first pages of its record," he said. "Its blessedness must be gradually unfolded to us, or we could not, even here, bear its dazzling glory."
Then followed an hour of hallowed intercourse, when he led my soul still deeper into the mysteries of the glorious life upon which I had now entered. He taught me; I listened. Sometimes I questioned, but rarely. I was content to take of the heavenly manna as it was given me, with a heart full of gratitude and love.