O joys that are gone, will you ever return
To gladden our hearts as of yore?
Will we find you awaiting us, some happy morn,
When we drift to Eternity's shore?
Will dear eyes meet our own, as in days that are past?
Will we thrill at the touch of a hand?
O joys that are gone, will we find you at last
On the shores of that wonderful land?
Soon after my brother's departure my mother said, grasping my hand:
"Come, I am eager to have you in our own home;" and we all passed out
of the rear entrance, walked a few hundred yards across the soft turf,
and entered a lovely home, somewhat similar to our own, yet still
unlike it in many details. It also was built of marble, but darker
than that of my brother's home. Every room spoke of modest refinement
and cultivated taste, and the home air about it was at once
delightfully perceptible. My father's study was on the second floor,
and the first thing I noticed on entering was the luxuriant branches
and flowers of an old-fashioned hundred-leafed rose tree, that covered
the window by his desk.
"Ah!" I cried, "I can almost imagine myself in your old study at home,
when I look at that window."
"Is it not a reminder?" he said, laughing happily. "I almost think
sometimes it is the same dear old bush, transplanted here."
"And it is still your favorite flower?" I queried.
He nodded his head, and said, smiling:
"I see you remember still the childhood days." And he patted my cheek
as I gathered a rose and fastened it upon his breast.
"It seems to me this ought to be your home, dear; it is our father's
home," said my sister wistfully.
"Nay," my father quickly interposed. "Col. Sprague is her legitimate
guardian and instructor. It is a wise and admirable arrangement. He
is in every way the most suitable instructor she could possibly have.
Our Father never errs."
"Is not my brother's a lovely character?" I asked.
"Lovely indeed; and he stands very near to the Master. Few have a
clearer knowledge of the Divine Will, hence few are better fitted for
instructors. But I, too, have duties that call me for a time away.
How blessed to know there can never again be long separations! You
will have two homes now, dear child--your own and ours."
"Yes, yes!" I said. "I shall be here, I suspect, almost as much as
there."
At this moment a swift messenger approached my father and spoke a few
low words.
"Yes, I shall go at once," he replied, and, waving his hand in adieu,
departed with the angelic guide.
"Where do my father's duties mostly lie?" I asked my mother.
"He is called usually to those who enter life with little
preparation--that which on earth we call death-bed repentance. You
know what wonderful success he always had in winning souls to Christ;
and these poor spirits need to be taught from the very beginning. They
enter the spirit-life in its lowest phase, and it is your father's
pleasant duty to lead them upward step by step. He is devoted to his
work and greatly beloved by those he thus helps. He often allows me to
accompany him and labor with him, and that is such a pleasure to me!
And do you know"--with an indescribable look of happiness--"I forget
nothing now!"
It had been her great burden, for some years before her death, that
memory failed her sadly, and I could understand and sympathize with her
present delight.
"Dear heart!" I cried, folding my arms tenderly about her, "then it is
like the early years of your married life again?"
"Precisely," she answered joyously.
A little later my sister drew me tenderly aside and whispered, "Tell me
of my boy, of my precious son. I often see him; but we are not
permitted to know as much always of the earthly life as we once
believed we should. The Father's tender wisdom metes out to us the
knowledge he sees is best, and we are content to wait his time for
more. All you can tell would not be denied me. Is he surely, surely
coming to me sometime? Shall I hold him again in my arms, my darling
boy?"
"I am sure--yes, I am sure you will. Your memory is very precious to
him."
Then I told her all I could recall of the son with whom she had parted
while he was but a child--now grown to man's estate, honored and loved,
with home and wife and son to comfort and bless him.
"Then I can wait," she said, "if he is sure to come to me at last, when
his earthly work is done, bringing his wife and son. How I shall love
them, too!"
At this moment I felt myself encircled by tender arms, and a hand was
gently laid on my eyes.
"Who is it?" some one whispered softly.
"Oh, I know the voice, the touch!--dearest, dearest Nell!" I cried,
and, turning quickly, threw my arms about the neck of my only brother.
He gathered me a moment warmly to his heart, then in his old-time
playful way lifted me quite off my feet in his strong arms, saying:
"She has not grown an inch; and is not, I believe, a day older than
when we last parted! Is she, Joe?" turning to our sister.
"It does not seem so," said my sister, "but I thought she would never
come."
"Trust her for that!" he said. "But come, now; they have had you long
enough for the first visit; the rest of us want you for awhile. Come
with us, Jodie. Mother, I may have them both for a little time, may I
not? or will you come, too?" turning to our mother with a caressing
touch.
"I cannot go, dear boy; I must be here when your father returns. Take
your sisters; it is a blessed sight to see you all again together."
"Come then," he said; and, each taking one of my hands, we went out
together.
"Halt!" he suddenly called, in his old-time military fashion, after a
short walk, and we stopped abruptly in front of a dainty house built of
the finest polished woods. It was beautiful both in architecture and
finish.
"How lovely!" I cried; and with a bow of charming humility he said:
"The home of your humble servant. Enter."
I paused a moment on the wide veranda to examine a vine, wreathed about
the graceful columns of highly-polished wood, and my brother laughingly
said to my sister:
"She is the same old Sis! We will not get much good out of her until
she has learned the name of every flower, vine and plant in heaven."
"Yes, you will," I said, shaking my head at his happy face, "but I mean
to utilize you whenever I can; I have so much to learn."
"So you shall, dear," he answered gently. "But come in."
Stepping inside a lovely vestibule, out of which opened, from every
side, spacious rooms, he called softly "Alma!" At once from one of
these, a fair woman approached us.
"My dear child!" I said, "it does not seem possible! You were but a
child when I last saw you."
"She is still her father's girl," said my brother, with a fond look.
"She and Carrie, whom you never saw, make a blessed home for me. Where
is your sister, daughter?"
"She is at the great music-hall. She has a very rich voice that she is
cultivating," Alma said, turning to me. "We were going to find our
aunt when she returned," she added.
"True, true," said my brother; "but come."
Then they showed me the lovely home, perfect and charming in every
detail. When we came out upon a side veranda, I saw we were so near an
adjoining house that we could easily step from one veranda to the other.
"There!" said my brother, lightly lifting me over the intervening
space. "There is some one here you will wish to see." Before I could
question him, he led me through the columned doorway, saying, "People
in heaven are never 'not at home' to their friends."
The house we entered was almost identical in construction and finish
with that of my brother Nell, and, as we entered, three persons came
eagerly forward to greet me.
"Dear Aunt Gray!" I cried. "My dear Mary--my dear Martin! What a joy
to meet you again!"
"And here," said my aunt reverently.
"Yes, here," I answered in like tone.
It was my father's sister, always a favorite aunt, with her son and his
wife. How we did talk and cling to one another, and ask and answer
questions!
"Pallas is also here, and Will, but they have gone with Carrie to the
music hall," said Martin.
"Martin, can you sing here?" I asked. He always was trying to sing on
earth, but could not master a tune.
"A little," he answered, with his old genial laugh and shrug; "we can
do almost anything here that we really try to do."
"You should hear him now, cousin, when he tries to sing," said his
wife, with a little touch of pride in her voice. "You would not know
it was Martin. But is it not nice to have Dr. Nell so near us? We are
almost one household, you see. All felt that we must be together."
"It is indeed," I answered, "although you no longer need him in his
professional capacity."
"No, thanks to the Father; but we need him quite as much in many other
ways."
"I rather think I am the one to be grateful," said my brother. "But,
sister, I promised Frank that you should go to your own room awhile; he
thought it wise that you should be alone for a time. Shall we go now?"
"I am ready," I answered, "though these delightful reunions leave no
desire for rest."
"How blessed," said my aunt, "that there is no limit here to our mutual
enjoyment! We have nothing to dread, nothing to fear. We know at
parting that we shall meet again. We shall often see each other, my
child."
Then my brother went with me to my own home, and, with a loving
embrace, left me at the door of my room.
Once within, I lay down upon my couch to think over the events of this
wonderful day; but, looking upward at the divine face above me, I
forgot all else, and, Christ's peace enfolding me like a mantle, I
became "as one whom his mother comforteth." While I lay in this
blissful rest, my brother Frank returned, and, without rousing me, bore
me in his strong arms again to earth. I did not know, when he left us
in our home, upon what mission he was going, though my father knew it
was to return to my dear husband and accompany him upon his sad journey
to his dead wife; to comfort and sustain and strengthen him in those
first lonely hours of sorrow. They deemed it best, for wise reasons,
that I should wait awhile before returning, and taste the blessedness
of the new life, thus gaining strength for the trial before me.