THE INVALID.
"How beautiful is constancy under intense suffering!" observed Mrs.
Gore. "And Christianity has its heroes still! I believe," added she,
glancing at the invalid on the sofa, "that when the trial of sickness
and pain is borne with meekness, cheerfulness, and perfect resignation,
God beholds the martyr's spirit in His servant, and prepares the
martyr's crown!"
"It would be a comfort to think that," said poor Percy, and sighed.
"I knew a poor woman," resumed Mrs. Gore, "the wife of a gamekeeper in
B— shire. For months, I believe years, an agonising malady had been
gradually drawing her towards the grave. Her cottage was a solitary
one; no one lived very near; her husband went to his work early in the
morning—and lonely, very lonely must her days often have been, when
pain was the only companion left with her. But religion cheered her
couch of suffering, and her feeble voice would be raised in hymns to
Him who was her hope and her salvation. I shall not soon forget one
occasion, when I was driving her home to her cottage, after a visit
to a doctor who had put her to exquisite pain. The glorious sun was
setting in the west; I pointed it out to the suffering woman, and
reminded her of the lines in which a dying Christian is compared to the
declining orb of day—"
"'And when he draws nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting-sun, he grows richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days
Of rising in brighter array!'"
"The expression of pain on the invalid's face was exchanged for a look
of pleasure and peace—she could do more than suffer and be still, she
could suffer and rejoice. And was not this woman Christian heroine?"
"This glory may belong even to a child," said Mr. Presgrave. "A dear
little boy not ten years of age, in a moment of danger and pain, could
say to his agonised mother, 'Mamma, do not cry; I am not afraid to
die!' That child, amid intense sufferings, glorified his God; not a
murmur escaped his expiring lips, and he showed how, even in childhood,
a Christian may die!"
"Were our souls really full of the love of God," said Mrs. Presgrave,
"we should ever be listening to that voice which says, 'Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'"
"I am not afraid to die!" exclaimed Percy. "Oh! That is the secret of
true courage, I believe."
"We can imagine nothing," replied Mr. Presgrave, "more calculated to
give firmness and heroism us circumstances of danger, than the blessed
belief that God is with us, that He orders all things for our good;
and that death itself, to the humble Christian, is but the gate, the
entrance to glory! For what said the holy David, persecuted, hunted,
surrounded by perils: 'The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall
I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I WILL
FEAR NO EVIL, FOR THOU ART WITH ME!'"