AT REST NOW.
"I wonder why Edgar North does not write to me. I can't think what can
have happened to him. Just think, auntie; I know that when his last letter
came, the leaves had not all gone from the trees, and now look at the
snow."
Several months had passed away since Arthur and his aunt had come home,
and the winter chill and shadows were gathering around. Many letters had
found their way to Myrtle Hill from the far-away mother in India, and
sometimes, though not so often, answers went back to tell her things about
her child that made her glad.
At first Arthur had often had tidings of his absent friend, beginning, "My
dear Arthur, I hope you are quite well;" and there was a sadness that
spoke in his short notes that Arthur could scarcely understand. But in one
of his letters Edgar had said, "I have to be indoors by myself a great
deal, and then I think of the things we used to talk about". That was the
last letter that had come from him, and now it was several months ago,
and Arthur was wondering at the long silence, as he had written twice in
answer to this letter. But many things had taken up his thoughts and his
time, and the winter holidays had begun, before he had thought much of his
absent friend.
"Aunt Daisy," said Arthur one morning, about two days after he had seen
his lesson books put away for the present, "I really wish I knew what has
become of Edgar; I think it is the strangest thing that he never writes to
me. People do not generally stop caring about their friends suddenly, do
they?"
"No, dear, not generally. Perhaps little boys may be peculiar kinds of
creatures, you know," she said, smiling.
"I am sure, aunt," said Arthur, looking aggrieved, "you think boys are
much nicer than you did once. And, besides, Edgar and I are not little."
"No, dear," said his aunt, laughing and kissing him. "I do think they are
very nice sometimes; and you are getting a great big fellow, whatever
Edgar is."
"I wish he would write to me," said Arthur, pausing before he began his
breakfast.
"Perhaps he may be ill," his aunt suggested.
"Perhaps he may be, auntie," said Arthur thoughtfully. "I wish I knew.
Poor Edgar! fancy his being ill all alone."
"Alone, dear! Why, is he not with his uncle and his aunt?"
"Yes; but then, you know, _all_ aunts are not nice. And there are a lot
of cousins. Perhaps you might not want to have me, if you had ever so many
children, Aunt Daisy."
Mrs. Estcourt smiled, and perhaps she thought that Arthur was not so very
far from right. Arthur still wondered why no letter came, and at last he
had almost made up his mind to write again; but this would be a task not
at all to his taste, and one which he would very much rather avoid.
One morning when he came down to breakfast, he saw that there was
something on his plate. It really was a letter at last! and, of course,
Arthur concluded that it could be from no one but his friend in London.
"A letter for me at last! Well, it is quite time. Now I shall have to
answer it, I suppose. Oh! I forgot. Good morning, auntie!"
But when Arthur had gone back to his place, and had examined his letter
more closely, he saw that it was not Edgar's round, plain hand that had
directed the envelope.
"Why, aunt," he said, "I don't believe it is from Edgar at all. Who can it
be from? Edgar does not write that way. That is a lady's writing. What
lady could be writing to me? Mamma is the only one, and her letter could
not be from London."
"Suppose you were to open it," said his aunt. "Nobody else has any right
to do it but you."
"Well!" said Arthur, drawing a long breath of expectation.
Presently he was deep in the interest of his letter, and it was not for
several minutes that he spoke again.
"Well, this is a very queer letter, and I cannot understand it at all. I
can make out that Edgar is very, very ill. And, Auntie, do you know he
seems to think perhaps he is never going to get well at all," Arthur said
very gravely and sadly.
"Has Edgar written to you himself?" asked his aunt.
"Yes. At least, that is, he said it, and one of his cousins wrote it down.
Would you like to read his letter, auntie?"
This was Edgar's letter to Arthur:
"MY DEAR ARTHUR,--My aunt is writing to your aunt, and my cousin Minnie is
writing this for me. I am in bed, so I am not able. You see, Arthur, I am
very ill, and the doctor says I shall not get better; but I am not afraid
now, dear Arthur. Cousin Minnie is very nice. I like her so much; but she
has to go away soon. Arthur, I hope you will be able to come. I have
prayed that you may; and I think your aunt will let you, because, you see,
I am going to die, most likely, and I want to see you again.
"Your affectionate friend,
"EDGAR NORTH."
"What can he mean, Aunt Daisy? What can he mean by saying, 'I hope you
will be able to come'? It is so strange not to explain."
"Do you think that will help you to understand?" asked his aunt, giving
him one of her own letters to read.
"What! Do you mean me to read your letter, auntie? Well!" said Arthur,
wondering at this unusual occurrence, and not connecting it at all with
his own letter.
Mrs. Estcourt's letter began 'Dear Madam,' and it was some little time
before Arthur could understand who it was from, or what it meant. By and
by he found that it was from Edgar's aunt, and that she was wishing him to
stay at her house in London, so that he might see her little nephew again.
This letter told that Edgar was very ill indeed; that his illness was
consumption, and that the doctor expected him to live only a very short
time.
It was several minutes before Arthur spoke, after he had read this letter.
Breakfast was quite forgotten, and he could hardly understand at first the
strange things he had read.
"Now, Arthur dear, you must eat some breakfast before we talk," said his
aunt.
"Aunt Daisy," he said, when he had finished, "What shall you say, when you
answer Edgar North's aunt's letter?"
"Well, what shall I say?"
"Auntie," said Arthur presently, "I am so sorry about Edgar. I never
thought he was so very ill. Do you think he is really going to die?"
"Yes, dear. I should think he will not get well. But you need not be
sorry, Arthur. Don't you see, he says he is not afraid; and the world is
not such a very bright place that he should be sorry to go, when he knows
he has such a home. Don't you think so, darling?"
"Yes," said Arthur; but the tears had dimmed his blue eyes, and a sudden
feeling in his throat made him stop speaking.
When Mrs. Estcourt was sitting with her work by the drawing-room fire,
with Arthur by her side, much more quietly and gravely than was usual with
him, he said suddenly:
"But, aunt, when are you going to answer that letter?"
"That is just the question I was asking myself, and the answer was, 'Now.'
What shall I say, Arthur?"
"Well, don't you think I had better go?"
"Yes, surely, dear. But how are you going to get there? You cannot travel
by yourself."
"Oh, aunt!" said Arthur, almost in an alarmed tone of voice, "I should
hope I am old enough. Why, of course I could. The idea of anybody taking
care of me!"
"Well, but," said Mrs. Estcourt, smiling, "that is just what I have been
thinking about all this time. I have been thinking that I should feel very
unhappy, if I let you go alone. It may be foolish, Arthur; but, you know,
your father and mother gave you to me to take care of for them."
"I know," said Arthur impatiently, "they would let me go by myself. I
could not bear to have any old man or woman looking after me."
"They need not be old, you know," said his aunt. "Now, Arthur," she added
very decidedly, "there is no use saying anything more about it. If you go
at all, I must know that some one is in the carriage with you. I need not
tell them to take care of you, but I must know that some one will be
there; and I know Mrs. Maitland is going to London to-morrow, so I shall
find out what train she is going by." Arthur made an impatient movement;
he did not say any more, but a look was on his face that showed what he
was feeling. As it happened, he need not have been so disgusted. When the
time for starting came, and he was taking his seat in the carriage, he
found that the lady had already taken her place there; and it was not so
very trying to his feelings as he expected, for Mrs. Estcourt only said,
"This is my little nephew, Mrs. Maitland; he is going to London, and I am
glad to think he is in your company."
"She never asked her to take care of me," said Arthur to himself, "and I
am sure she could not think of such a thing herself when she sees me."
But Mrs. Maitland had sons of her own at home about Arthur's age, and she
knew something about boys and their ways, so that by the time they reached
the Paddington Station they were very good friends. Arthur did not at all
object to her helping him to get a cab that was to take him to Leicester
Lodge, in Kensington.
Indeed, he was obliged to confess to himself, when he found himself alone
in the hansom cab that his friend had found for him, that it was very well
she had been with him, for when he was standing on the platform, with the
din and bustle around him, and the many people stirring in the vast
station, he had felt quite bewildered. He had never been in London before,
and this was the longest journey he had taken.
It was a very curious feeling that he had when he found himself alone in
the cab: at first he could not get quite over the feeling that it was not
safe; it seemed to him that it would be so very easy for the driver to go
away and leave the horse to take him wherever he liked amongst the crowds
of people, and cabs, and omnibuses.
You may be sure that he looked about him well, as they whirled along
through street after street, skirting the park and the palace-like houses.
He had to guess the names of the places they were passing through, and I
dare say some of his guesses would have amused you very much indeed. He
was quite sure a hotel that he passed was somebody's palace, perhaps the
Lord Chancellor's. He did not think it could be Her Majesty's, because
there were no soldiers.
It was quite dark by the time the cab drove up outside Leicester Lodge,
and lights were shining above the shutters of the dining and drawing-room
windows. The dim light enabled Arthur to see that it was a large house
with a small piece of garden-ground in front, and one or two leafless
trees, which gave it rather a dreary look.
It was not very long before he found himself standing inside the hall door
with his portmanteau. The servant showed him into a small ante-room, and
said he would tell the young ladies. Arthur had a curious feeling of not
being expected, although he knew he must be, as his aunt had written to
Mrs. North the day before.
This was not a very quiet and orderly household evidently; there were
traces of that in the room where he was sitting, and he could hear noises
on the stairs and in the room overhead that might say the same. Presently
there was a scuffling noise in the hall, and after a little while the door
was burst quickly open, and more than one curly head peeped in, and was as
quickly drawn back, and Arthur could hear a little girl's voice say, "Oh,
Gerald, it was you made me do it; you know it was!"
Arthur felt rather inclined to run out, and see who was there; but he
thought it would be better to wait until some older person came.
By and by the door opened again, more quietly this time, and a young lady
came into the room. She had a kind look on her face, as she held out her
hand to Arthur, and said--
"I am so sorry you have been left here alone; but I could not leave the
baby, my youngest brother. Won't you come upstairs to your room?"
Arthur was feeling just a little shy, so he only shook hands with the
young lady, and followed her upstairs. On the way, he asked, "Will you
tell me how Edgar is?"
"Not very well, to-day; but just now he is asleep, I think. Were you and
he great friends?"
"Yes," said Arthur. "Are you his cousin?"
"One of his cousins. I dare say he told you there were ever so many."
"Yes; I don't think he knew how many," said Arthur.
"No; I should think not," said Maude, laughing. "I hardly do, sometimes.
But I believe altogether we number ten."
"Oh," said Arthur, "what, ten brothers and sisters at home?"
"Oh, no; we are very seldom all at home together. Two of my brothers are
abroad, and some of the girls are at school. It is a very good thing they
are sometimes."
"There, that is Edgar's room," said Miss North, as they passed one of the
doors. "We try to keep the noise away from this passage as much as we can;
but it is not very easy with so many boys and girls." This was very true,
as just then two boys about Arthur's own age came bursting through one of
the doors, and were stopped by their sister at the entrance of the
passage.
"Now, boys, don't come this way. You know Edgar is asleep. Just tumble
down the other stairs, if you must tumble."
"I suppose you never tear about in that way," said Maude, with a faint
smile.
"Oh, yes, I think I do sometimes," Arthur answered; "but, of course, it is
not so much fun doing it by one's self."
They were in Arthur's room now, which was a small one not very far from
Edgar's; and a locked door, which opened into another room, showed that it
was a dressing-room.
"You see, as the children and Edgar are at home, we have only this little
room. Will you be able to sleep here, do you think?"
Edgar's cousin smiled as she spoke, and Arthur thought how very nice it
made her look.
"Oh, yes; I should think so," he said.
"Well, presently you will hear the tea bell. Oh, no; but I forgot! We
don't ring the tea bell now that Edgar is ill. One of the children shall
let you know, if you are not down first."
But after a little while, when no one had come to call him, Arthur opened
his door and came down stairs. It did not need any one to tell him which
was the room where the young people were, as the sounds that came through
the shut door would let any one know that. Arthur paused outside the
school-room door, and then he opened it and went in. It was such a strange
new scene that he saw, so different from anything he had been accustomed
to, and he was almost bewildered by so many boys and girls, most of whom
seemed to be laughing and talking together.
There was a long tea-table. The eldest sister was at the head, five
younger ones were seated around, and a tall boy was lying on a sofa near
the fire reading. Indeed, he did not call himself a boy at all; for he had
just left school, and was preparing for some difficult examination.
All the faces round the table were turned towards Arthur as he opened the
door; but none of them spoke until Maude, noticing the silence, saw Arthur
standing. Then she said, "Gerald, why don't you speak? or Harold, this is
Arthur Vivyan, Edgar's friend."
The two boys shook hands, and then Arthur spoke to the three little girls,
who were looking as if they would like to speak. Arnold, the eldest,
seemed to be half asleep over his book; so they sat down to tea. Arthur
was wondering where the father and mother were. It seemed so strange
altogether, and he could not help thinking that it was rather a disorderly
party. All the children seemed to do very much as they liked, and yet it
appeared as if their eldest sister took a great deal of trouble to make
them behave properly. She seemed to be constantly putting them right
without much effect. Arthur wondered whether this was what gave her face
such a tired look.
"Harold, I wish you would let Clara alone. Do take tea properly. Gerald,
you know you would not do that if papa were here." And Maude gave a sigh,
as she saw her words had no effect.
"I do wish you would behave properly; what must Edgar's friend think of
you?"
"I dare say he thinks we are something like himself," said Gerald, "don't
you?"
Arthur laughed, because he did not know what else to do. And then Maude
gave a faint laugh.
"What's the use of keeping on wishing, Maude?" said Arnold, rousing
himself. "Why can't you make them?"
"Well, how would you?" asked Maude.
"Oh, that is quite another thing," said Arnold, yawning.
"I dare say you could not do it as well as Maude," said Harold.
"No; very likely not," said Arnold, laughing, and he returned to his book.
"Well, I wish you would all make haste and finish tea," said Maude, taking
out her watch, "whatever way you do it. Oh, dear, I must make haste, or I
shall not be ready in time for dinner. Arnold, you must go. What will papa
say if we are not ready when the bell rings?"
Arnold got up as if with an immense effort. "I dare say I shall be ready
quite as soon as you are, Maudie. You always get into such a fluster about
every thing."
When the two eldest were gone, the younger ones became still more lively.
One of the little girls was more quiet than the rest, and she seemed to
think it would be nice and polite to talk to their visitor.
"Do you always have your meals by yourselves?" asked Arthur.
"All except breakfast," said Minnie. "You see, mamma hardly ever comes out
of her dressing-room; she is ill, and papa is away all the day, and he
only comes home to dinner at seven."
"Does he have dinner alone?"
"Oh, no; you know that was the reason Maude was in such a hurry. She and
Arnold dine with papa." Then they were both silent for a little while.
Presently Arthur said, "I wonder when I shall be able to see Edgar."
Minnie hesitated, and then said, "I was just thinking about that. You see,
Edgar does not know you have come; and, besides, I think he is asleep; he
was just now, and I cannot go and ask Maude."
"Why not?" said Arthur.
"Oh, because dinner is going on. Papa would not like it."
"You do what your sister tells you more than the others," said Arthur,
"don't you?"
"Oh, we all do sometimes," said Minnie. After a little while she spoke
again:
"I don't think Maude would mind. Perhaps she forgot, and I can tell her
about it afterwards. I'll tell you what we will do; we will go up to
Edgar's door, and then I can go in, and you can stay outside while I see
whether he is asleep, and whether I can tell him that you are here. I
don't think Maude will mind. Shall we?"
"Yes," said Arthur. "I don't see why she should, because I came on purpose
to see Edgar."
As soon as the other children saw Minnie and Arthur going away, there was
a general cry, "Minnie, where are you going?"
"Never mind," said Minnie resolutely.
"We wanted to have 'post'. There won't be enough without you. Come now,
stop," said Harold, putting his hand on the door handle.
"Oh, Harold, do let us go!" said Minnie pitifully.
"Well, tell us where you are going then?" Minnie saw that this was the
only chance.
"We are going to Edgar's room, I shall be back soon, Harold."
"Yes; but we wanted Arthur Vivyan to play. Boys are twice the fun of
girls."
"But, you know, he came on purpose to see Edgar; and don't you remember
how very, very ill, Edgar is, Harold?" said his sister gravely.
Harold let go his grasp of the door, and Arthur and his new little friend
found themselves safely outside.
"Now," said Minnie, as they stood on the landing at the top of the
stairs, "you stop here, and then I will come back in a minute."
She opened the door very cautiously, and looked in for a moment; then
Arthur saw her go inside and shut the door. It was several minutes before
she came back.
"I told him," she said. "Oh, I hope I did not do him any harm. He was so
very glad."
"Why," said Arthur, "I should think that would be a good thing."
"But he is so ill, you know. I think you had better go in now. Oh," she
said, just as she was turning away, "if you think him looking very
different from what he was last summer, don't you think you had better not
seem surprised? I know my mother never likes people to say anything about
her looks."
"Very well," said Arthur.
It was only the firelight that brightened Edgar's room, and it danced and
sparkled around, and gave quite light enough for Arthur to see every thing
distinctly. The room felt very warm and comfortable as he went in, and the
sound of Edgar's quick, hard breathing was very plain. Arthur drew very
quietly near the bedside. Little Minnie's caution was well given; for it
needed an effort on his part to be quiet and composed, as he saw the
change in his friend; and he had to try very hard to keep the tears from
coming to his eyes. Edgar was lying so very still and quiet; his cheeks
were white and sunken, and his eyes looked large, and dark, and shining;
but there was a much happier look in them than in the old times when they
used to talk together.
"Oh, Arthur," said Edgar, trying to stretch out his hand, "I am so glad
you have come. I did so pray that I might see you again."
Arthur came and sat down as near him as he could. "Of course I came when
you wanted me, and my aunt said I might."
"Hold my hand, Arthur," said Edgar, "while I talk to you. You are my
brother, you know."
Arthur took Edgar's thin, hot hand, and held it in his own sturdy one; and
as he looked at him, he could not help it, the tears came into his eyes.
"I know what you are thinking about, Arthur," said Edgar, "and I know you
are trying to seem as if you do not think me very ill; but you need not
mind, I know I am, and I know I am going to be with the Lord Jesus very
soon."
"Dear Edgar," said Arthur, burying his face in the bed-clothes to hide his
tears, "I never knew you really were so very ill."
"Didn't you?" said Edgar. "No, I suppose not. I did not know it either,
until lately, for certain. But it will be so nice in heaven, Arthur, with
the Lord Jesus. I shall never be tired, or cross, or have those pains. And
the Lord Jesus wants to have me there; that is so nice to think of. You
know I have always had a feeling that people would as soon I was away; but
I know He really wants to have me in heaven with Himself very much. It
makes me love Him so much to think of that. That is one of the things
Cousin Amy told me."
"Who is she? Does she live here?"
"Oh, no; she is not one of these Norths; she is one of my other uncle's
daughters; and she was staying here in the autumn. She taught me more
about the Lord Jesus than any one else, except you."
"Did I?" asked Arthur.
"Why, you know you did. Don't you remember those walks? I have never
forgotten those things, Arthur."
"But you used to be very miserable then."
"Yes; but I thought about it all afterwards; and then Cousin Amy was so
nice."
"Tell me some of the things she said," asked Arthur; "that is, if you can;
but perhaps you have talked enough for to-night, Edgar. Perhaps I had
better go now."
"Oh, no," said Edgar; "do stay; it is so nice having you; and I can talk
much better in the evenings. I will tell you some of the nice thoughts I
had, if you like. You know I have had so much time to think, Arthur. I
have had so many hours by myself, lying here."
"Have you been here long, then, and by yourself? Oh, Edgar, why couldn't
you have let me know?" asked Arthur reproachfully.
"Oh, because I could not write myself. I became worse so suddenly, you
know. It seems such a long, strange time since I came, and since last
holidays when I saw you, Arthur. At first it was so horrid; and then I got
ill, and then Cousin Amy came, and then Louisa and Minnie came home for
the holidays, and now you are here."
"How was it horrid?" asked Arthur.
"Well, I know they did not much want me. I don't mean they were unkind;
but just think of all the children here. It does not make much difference
to Uncle North, because he is away all the day at his office, nor to poor
Aunt North either, because she is always ill; but I know Maude has enough
to do already; and Arnold says he thinks boys are a great bother. Then the
others used to be making such a noise, and taking long walks, and I could
not; and they all said I was not happy; but I was just as happy as
anywhere else, only I could not be the same as they were."
"That little girl seems nice," said Arthur, "the one that told you I was
here."
"Minnie? Oh, yes, she is a dear little thing. But she has only been at
home about a fortnight. It was she who got Aunt North to ask you to come.
I love her; she has been more kind to me than any of the rest."
"I expect my little sister Mildred would have been something like her if
she had lived," said Arthur.
"You cannot think how I used to wish for you, Arthur. While Cousin Amy was
here I never thought of asking her to write to you for me; besides, it
would not have been very much use, when I could not have asked you to
come. Maude used sometimes to come up and sit in my room. But I don't know
how it is, I feel rather afraid of Maude; and she has so much to do, and
altogether I did not like her to do it. Then when the holidays began she
could not come up. But the day after Minnie came home, she came up and
talked; and I did not mind asking her anything."
"Did you ask her to write to me?" asked Arthur.
"Not exactly. One day she asked me, when we were talking about my not
going to live, whether there was any one I would like to see; and I said
there was one person, and that was you, you know. Then the next time she
came she said, 'I've asked mamma, Edgar, and she says we may, if Maude can
manage.' I could not think what she meant at first. Was she not a dear
little thing?"
"Yes; and then," said Arthur, very much interested.
"Oh, then she coaxed Maude in some way, and I said the letter, and Minnie
wrote it."
Just then the door opened, and some one appeared with a tray, whom Arthur
had not yet seen. This was the nurse, who was a kind person, and came to
Edgar's bedside when she could leave her own charge.
"Oh," she said, "so you have your friend, Mr. Edgar, I see."
"Yes, nurse," said Edgar, "isn't it nice?"
"But you must not talk too much, you know, sir."
"I expect he has been talking quite enough," said Arthur, jumping up; "and
I am going now, Edgar, I can come again to-morrow, you know."
"That's a good young gentleman," said nurse.
So Edgar's thoughts could not be told until the next day.
On the way down stairs, Arthur met Maude; and he began to wonder now
whether she would like his having been all this time in Edgar's room, and
whether she would know. Perhaps his thoughts were in his face, for Maude
smiled, and said:
"Oh, I know. You have been in Edgar's room. Minnie told me all about it.
What did you think of him?"
"I think he is very, very ill, Miss North."
"Yes; poor child. It is easy to see he cannot live long. He is very
peaceful though."
Maude sighed as she spoke. Perhaps she was wishing that she was the same
herself, and that there was a peace in her heart which the Lord gives,
"not as the world giveth."
"Miss North," said Arthur, "you did not mind your sister having taken me
up stairs, did you?"
"Oh, dear, no. I dare say she knows quite as well as I do what is good for
Edgar. She is a very sensible little woman."
Arthur did not find that the North family were much more subdued and
orderly the next day than they had been the evening before. This was
holiday time, and with no lessons to do, it could hardly be expected but
that there should be a commotion all the day.
Happily the school-room was some distance from the room where the sick boy
lay, so very little noise found its way there.
Mrs. North wished to see Arthur the next day. He felt rather shy of going;
but as it had to be done, he made up his mind to do it. He thought her
something like her daughter Maude, only more quiet and gentle, and there
was a sweeter look on her face than Maude usually wore.
When the evening came, a message was sent that Edgar wanted to have Arthur
with him again. He was always better at that time; and he would sit up
with the pillows around him, and the crimson curtains looking so dark and
red behind his pale white face; but the firelight that glowed around, and
showed Arthur how thin and sunken his face was, showed him, too, that a
calm, happy peace was spreading there, and making it very beautiful.
"Arthur," said Edgar, "I want you to have my Bible and my watch; will you?
and keep them always for my sake."
"But, Edgar, you don't _know_ you are going to die; you don't know it for
certain," said Arthur, his voice trembling a little.
"Oh, yes, I do; I know I am dying; but, you know, Arthur, I am only going
to the Lord Jesus, and He wants me so much; for He has died instead of me,
and all my sins are washed away in His precious blood. Cousin Amy used to
sing something so nice; I cannot remember it all, but some of it was
this--
"'Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast;
For He gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
And carries them Himsel' to His ain countree.'
"And that is just the way I feel, Arthur. I feel just going to my home;
and I shall never be tired or cross there."
"I'm sure you are not cross here," said Arthur. "Edgar, do tell me about
your getting so happy."
"Oh, yes; and I want to tell you about Cousin Amy too. Well, you know, it
was rather miserable when first I came, and I had to be up here all alone;
and I used to cry so, Arthur, thinking about you--I dare say it was like a
baby; but I could not help it--and about papa. Oh, I did so want to see
papa! and it did not make me happy to think about the Lord Jesus and
heaven. But Cousin Amy came; and she used to sit here and read me little
bits, and hymns; one was that one I said a bit of, and others. And she was
so kind; she used to get me nice cool things to take; and sometimes she
would fan me, and put her hand on my head when it was so hot; and, oh, I
was so sorry when she was gone. One evening I was crying, and then I began
thinking about the last verses she had read to me. You know, it was that
part about the Lord feeding the multitude; and then He sent the disciples
away in a boat, and went by Himself to pray; and I thought if I had been
alive then, and that I had known He was away in that mountain by Himself,
I would have got out of bed, and would have found my way to Him; and it
would have been so nice with nobody there but Himself and me on the great
lonely mountain! I should have felt so safe with Him anywhere. And then I
began to think what He would have said to me; and I thought it would be,
'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' Then I would have
stayed, you know, because He would not send me away. And I thought He
would have put His arms round me; and how safe I would have felt! And then
I began thinking that I could do just the same in bed where I was, because
He could see and hear just the same; so I said to Him, 'Lord Jesus Christ,
I am here at Thy feet;' and I said to Him that hymn, 'Just as I am.' It
was so happy. And now to think of all the things He has given
me--everlasting life, and the forgiveness of my sins, and so much! And,
Arthur, I am just keeping there now until I go to sleep, and I shall be
with Him for ever."
"Oh, Edgar," said Arthur, "I am glad you are so happy."
Edgar had talked so much that he was exhausted; and he had to lie back on
the pillows, breathing very quickly.
So they stayed quiet for a little while; and the firelight glowed and
danced on Arthur's brown curls, and lighted his ruddy cheeks that seemed
to make the paleness of Edgar's greater.
"Edgar," said Arthur, "you will not be able to come to Ashton Grange now.
Don't you remember when we said you would? I did think it would have been
so nice."
"Yes; I remember," a little shade passing over Edgar's face. "I used to
think it would be so nice. But, Arthur, it is better to go to the Lord
Jesus; it is the Father's house, you know, and my father and mother are
there; and it is my own home."
Edgar's voice had been getting weaker while he was speaking the last time;
and as Arthur looked at him, it seemed even to him, who knew so little
about illness, that Edgar must be worse.
"Edgar," he said, "I am going now, because I know you are tired; and nurse
told me you would want something to eat when I went, so I shall send her
to you. Good-night, Edgar, dear Edgar."
He did not try to keep Arthur that night; and the "good-night" he said to
him was faintly spoken; but there was a loving look in his dark eye as he
watched his friend to the door.
They neither of them knew how very near Edgar was to "his own home," and
that very soon his weary spirit would rest for ever, where no heart can
breathe a sigh, and no sound can enter to say it is not joy.
That night a ransomed one went away from the earth, and God took him. He
would never be weary any more, and no pain or trouble would make the
lonely child sorrowful. He would never know what it was to be anxious or
unhappy; he would have the sweetness of perfect rest, for
"So He giveth His beloved sleep."
And Edgar knew that the Lord who loved him had a welcome for him in the
bright home of everlasting joy; for He has said, "Father, I will that they
also whom Thou hast given me be with me where I am."