"Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
"When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
Is dimmed and vanished, too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray
_As darkness shows us worlds of light_
_We never saw by day._"
"None," said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of their
earthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand the
closing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer your
question, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs.
Endicott--a world full of light, and joy, and consolation--a world
whose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds.
When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and lift
our eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, an
unexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament,
glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from that
inner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do not
tread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it from
the Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it may
be, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it is
true--I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say,
it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak so
much of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know,
is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try and
interest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is very
ill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almost
babes--sweet little things--and if the mother is taken they will be
left without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heart
of some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night,
thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my duty
in the case. I might make room for one of them--"
"You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeigned
astonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such a
thought, broken down in health as you are and with five children of
your own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourself
and to them. Don't think of such a thing."
"That makes the difficulty in the case," replied Mrs. Adair. "The
spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enough
to take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear the
added burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if I
cannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and will
carry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receive
them."
"But why, my friend," said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is so
precious--who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own,
far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burden
yourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fitted
for the work."
"There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother and
her babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but the
mother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, can
truly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my own
precious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet from
their earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer came
to the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for the
when I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundly
thankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives me
strength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tender
mercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in the
morning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully,
hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heart
of this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, that
I undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and she
is partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure.'
Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if the
mother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth,
in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God's
kingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up for
Him. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, and
say to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in my
heart.' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain of
delight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, painted
instantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a source
of pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this golden
opportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lie
about your feet."
That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. The
beautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed;
and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growing
stagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding the
Sun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and was
moved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hour
afterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had received
from the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen her
eyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for its
better home.
"God will bless you, madame!"
All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words,
and her full heart spent itself in their utterance.
Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit--very far
away--the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to her
ears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down the
electric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now,
penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknown
before; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action was
unselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like--for God acts from
a love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought her
nearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and all
proximity in this direction gives its measure of interior
delight--as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness and
disquietude.
"God will bless you!"
Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them to
be a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and care
upon the motherless little ones, she received from above double for
all she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them her
heart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat with
theirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy of
her existence.
Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was
not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs.
Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so
unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly
dealt by--should be compelled to grope through life with painful
steps along a darkened way.
"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to
penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only
in part--I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I
say _force_, for it is indeed force-work."
"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have
been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this
way, doubting, fearing trembling--but now I see that it is the right
way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily
upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the
mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside--few they
are, as yet, but very fragrant."
Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed,
"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all
was bright and prosperous around me."
Mrs. Endicott looked surprised.
"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this
boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful
woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace
is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to
another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest
pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no
matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live
for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose
gift to you has proved so great--a good, might have passed away,
though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called
my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of
sympathy--certainly without filling my heart with the yearning
desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the
happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children,
too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it
would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,--but I am not so
sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more
than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in
the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now
see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness
I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have
become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far
better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure
this great end than I was before."
"But the way is hard for you--very hard," said Mrs. Endicott.
"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer,
while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her
countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way
smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the
roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough
place made even."