"It's ill done in me to grieve for her. She is far better off than ever
I could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--I must
submit."
"You have Sandy still."
"Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping."
"And he will come yet."
"Yes, I have little doubt. But I'll no' set myself to the hewing out of
broken cisterns this while again. The Lord kens best."
After that night Mrs Snow never left the house for many hours at a time
till Menie went away. Graeme never told her father of the sorrow that
was drawing near. As the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he
knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to
him. He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her
bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. But to Graeme he did
not speak of her sister's state till near the very last.
They were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom
sat now. They had been sitting thus a long time--so long that Graeme,
forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her
weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked
utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that
her father's eyes were upon her.
"You are tired to-night, Graeme," said he, at last. Graeme started, but
it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with
something at the table and did not speak. Her father sighed.
"It will not be long now."
Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak.
"We little thought it was our bonny Menie who was to see her mother
first. Think of the joy of that meeting, Graeme!"
Graeme's head drooped down on the table. If she had spoken a word, it
must have been with a great burst of weeping. She trembled from head to
foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. Her father watched her for a
moment.
"Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?"
"Not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "I am almost willing now."
"What is the happiest life here--and Menie's has been happy--to the
blessedness of the rest which I confidently believe awaits her, dear
child?"
"It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be left
behind."
"Ay, love! But we must bide God's time. And you will have your
brothers and Rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in
young hearts."
Graeme's head drooped lower. She was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly
now. Her father went on--
"And afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. I used to
think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its
bitterness. If it had ever come into my mind that your mother might
leave me, I might have borne it better, I thought. But God knows.
There are some things for which we cannot prepare."
There was a long silence.
"Graeme, I have something which I must say to you," said her father, and
his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "If the time
comes--when the time comes--my child, I grieve to give you pain, but
what I have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no
nearer. My child, I have something to say to you of the time when we
shall no longer be together--" Graeme did not move.
"My child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the
doubtful glances one sends into the future. I stand now, and see all
the way by which God has led me, with a grieved wonder, that I should
ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. The
dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with
fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--Mounts of
God, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. And yet, I mind groping
about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable.
"My child, are you hearing me? Oh! if my experience could teach you! I
know it cannot be. The blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must
bear for himself; and I need not tell you that there never yet was
sorrow sent to a child of God, for which there is no balm. You are
young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think
at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary
waters you may have to cross. But there is no fear that you will be
alone, dear, or that He will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet
withhold the needed strength. Are you hearing me, my child?"
Graeme gave a mute sign of assent.
"Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. Yours may be long
and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to
change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. God make us
patient in it,--patient and helpful. Short as your sister's life has
been, it has not been in vain. She has been like light among us, and
her memory will always be a blessedness--and to you Graeme, most of
all."
Graeme's lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her face down on her
father's knee, and her tears fell fast. Her father raised her, and
clasping her closely, let her weep for a little.
"Hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "Nay," he added, as she
would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired Graeme, my child, my best
comforter always."
Graeme's frame shook with sobs.
"Don't papa--I cannot bear it--"
She struggled with herself, and grew calm again.
"Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, it is not because I
am altogether unhappy, or because I am not willing to let her go--"
"Hush, love, I know. You are your mother's own patient child. I trust
you quite, Graeme, and that is why I have courage to give you pain. For
I must say more to-night. If anything should happen to me--hush, love.
My saying it does not hasten it. But when I am gone, you will care for
the others. I do not fear for you. You will always have kind friends
in Janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give
you one, I am sure. But Graeme, I would like you all to keep together.
Be one family, as long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go to
him, go all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you will
take a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, that you should
keep together."
The shock which her father's words gave, calmed Graeme in a moment.
"But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?"
"No, love, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to say this to
you, because it is always well to be prepared. That is all I had to
say, love."
But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go,
he whispered, softly,--
"I trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your
mother and me."
It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only,
and the end came. They were all together in Marian's room, sitting
quietly after worship was over. It was the usual time for separating
for the night, but they still lingered. Not that any of them thought it
would be to-night. Mrs Snow might have thought so, for never during
the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched
with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. She had
been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as Mrs Snow
bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in
her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,--
"Janet, is it to be to-night? Are they all here? Papa, Graeme. Where
is Graeme?"
They were with her in a moment, and Graeme's cheek was laid on her
sister's wasted hand.
"Well, my lammie!" said her father, softly.
"Papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?"
Her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek.
"You are not afraid, my child?"
Afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. Her
look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that
the King's messenger was come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he
bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw
no more those bonny eyes, but Janet's toil-worn hand laid over them.
Graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they
all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about
her, she did not move.
"There is no need. Let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching
and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank God for the
momentary forgetfulness which He has given her."