There is no knowing what Mr. Linden would have considered "too early,"
and Faith had prudently omitted to enquire. She studied nothing but her
Bible that morning and spent the rest of the time in getting ready what
she was to take with her; for Mr. Linden would not come home to
breakfast. And it was but fair day, the sun had not risen, when she was
on her way. She wondered, as she went, what they would have done that
winter without Jerry; and looked at the colouring clouds in the east
with a strange quick appreciation of the rising of that other day told
of in the Bible. Little Johnny brought the two near; the type and the
antitype. It was a pretty ride; cold, bright, still, shadowless; till
the sun got above the horizon, and then the long yellow faint beams
threw themselves across the snow that was all a white level before.
They reached Faith's heart, as the commissioned earnest of that other
Sun that will fill the world with his glory and that will make heaven a
place where "there shall be no night."
The room where little Johnny was,--lay like the chamber called Peace,
in the Pilgrim's Progress--towards the sunrising; but to reach it Faith
had first to pass through another on the darker side of the house. The
door between the two stood open, perhaps for fresher air, and as Faith
came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the
early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;--the windows with chintz
shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old
low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the
high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little
progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean,
long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new
veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window.
The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing
light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life
that _had_ made progress--progress which though but yet begun, was to
go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity!
Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his
weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it
had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that
black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand
that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some
question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of
the two,--Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched
with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved
and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little
boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could
see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,--not the mother
whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head
gentler rest. Nay, not so good,--unless she could have given the little
heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well
that road to the unseen land--who had studied it; and now as the child
went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him
the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if
the river were already in sight,--as if somewhat of
"that strange, unearthly grace
Which crowns but once the children of our race--"
already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than
yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now.
Faith stood still one minute--and another; then pulling off her hood,
she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr.
Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group.
She had a smile for Johnny too, but it was a smile that had quite left
the things of the world behind it and met the child on his own ground;
and her kiss was sweet accordingly. A look and a clasp of the hand to
Mr. Linden; then she rose up and went round to the window to take the
hand of Mr. Fax, who had found his feet.
"I'm very much beholden to ye!" said he in somewhat astonished wise.
"You're takin' a sight o' trouble among ye."
"It's no trouble, sir."
Mr. Fax looked bewildered. He advanced to Mr. Linden. "Now this girl's
here," said he, "don't you think you hadn't better come into another
room and try to drop off? I guess he can get along without you for a
spell--can't he?"
"I am not quite ready to leave him," Mr. Linden said,--"and I am not at
all sleepy, Mr. Fax. Perhaps I will come by and by."
"We'll have breakfast, I conclude, some time this forenoon. I'll go and
see if it's ever comin'. Maybe you'll take that first."
He went away; and Faith, rid of her wrappers, came up again behind
Johnny, passing her fingers through his hair and bending down her face
to his; she did not speak. Only her eye went to Mr. Linden for
intelligence, as the eye will, even when it has seen for itself!
"Dr. Harrison is coming this morning," was all he said. She did not
need to ask any more.
"May Johnny have anything now?"
"O yes--and he will like it," Mr. Linden said in a different tone, and
half addressing the child. "He asked me some time ago when you were
coming--but not for that."
Faith brought something freshly prepared for Johnny and served him
tenderly. Meanwhile her own coffee had been on the fire; and after
making two or three simple arrangements of things she came back to them.
"Will you sit with me now, Johnny, and let Mr. Linden have some
breakfast?"
"In here?" the child said. But being reassured on that point, he came
to Faith's arms very willingly, or rather let Mr. Linden place him
there, when she had drawn her chair up nearer the table so that he
could look on. And with her arms wrapped tenderly round him, but a face
of as clear quiet as the morning sky when there are no clouds before
the sunrise, she sat there, and she and Johnny matched Mr. Linden's
breakfast. There was no need to talk, for Johnny had a simple pleasure
in what was going on, and in everything his friend did. And if the
little face before him hindered Mr. Linden's enjoyment of breakfast,
that was suffered to appear as little as possible. Breakfast was even
rather prolonged and played with, because it seemed to amuse him; and
the word and the smile were always ready, either to call forth or to
answer one from the child. Nor from him alone, for by degrees even
Faith was drawn out of her silence.
Mr. Linden had not yet changed his place, when on the walk that led up
to the house Faith saw the approach of Dr. Harrison. The doctor as he
came in gave a comprehensive glance at the table, Mr. Linden who had
risen, and Faith with Johnny in her lap; shook hands with Mr. Linden,
and taking the chair he had quitted sat down in front of Faith and
Johnny. A question and answer first passed about her own well-being.
"You've not been here all night?" said he.
"No, sir. I came a while ago."
The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of
its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him,
with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned,
judged, and passed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to
Mr. Linden.
"There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would
stay--but I know that it would be in vain. _She_ ought not to be here."
For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,--the second fell upon a
heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and
happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet
question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort--as to
the probable length of time there would be to do anything.
"He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor--"such as he
has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am
sorry I cannot stay longer with you--but it does not matter--you can do
as well as I now."
He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I
hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be
taken care of. You were here yesterday--there is no necessity for you
to be here to-day."
"I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison."
"I know!" said he shaking his head,--"your will is strong! but it ought
not to have full play. You are not wanted here."
Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was
gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's
brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet
with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for
him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather
inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect
of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two
teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then
suddenly she said,
"Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott--now."
"I do not feel the need of it--" he said. "I had some snatches of sleep
last night."
She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little
time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair
little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural
heaviness, Faith said,--and the tone seemed to come from very stillness
of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,--
"The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott."
"How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very
precious too, is the love of his will!"--and he repeated softly, as if
half thinking it out--
"'I worship thee, sweet will of God!
And all thy ways adore!
And every day I live, I seem
To love thee more and more.'"
An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it
was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a
child's lip in its humbleness.
"It was very hard for me to give him up at first--" Mr. Linden went on
softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions.
'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at
mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first
summer month.'"--
Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms--and was silent.
"Reuben was telling me yesterday--" she said after a few
minutes,--"what you have been to him."
But her words touched sweet and bitter things--Mr. Linden did not
immediately answer,--his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did
not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention.
The quiet rest of the little sleeper was passing off,--changing into an
unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness
of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to
have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face
never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr.
Linden, with the words, "Walk--like last night."
And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to
listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the
soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in
Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it
wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles--from the words which by
degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words
was, "Sing."--Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was
almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word.
"Jesus loves me--this I know,
For the Bible tells me so:
Little ones to him belong,--
They are weak, but he is strong.
"Jesus loves me,--he who died
Heaven's gate to open wide;
He will wash away my sin,
Let his little child come in.
"Jesus loves me--loves me still,
Though I'm very weak and ill;
From his shining throne on high
Comes to watch me where I lie.
"Jesus loves me,--he will stay
Close beside me all the way.
Then his little child will take
Up to heaven for his dear sake."
There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden
came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright
cheerful way--meant for her as well as the child--that Johnny wanted
her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny
enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both
offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with
how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then,
after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow
coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden
watched her, with grave eyes.
"Now you must go and lie down," he said.
"Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time--or didn't
take time--to eat my breakfast before I came away from home--that is
all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"--she added gently.
She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and
smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she
came and sat down.
"Won't you go?" she said softly.
"I would rather stay here."
Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful.
Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least
partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he
said, laying his cheek against the child's,--
"Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down
on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the
minute you want me."
The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily
against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and
gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then
Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some
things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might
be the wiser,--when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He
glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and
looked down at his child and her with a curious look--that half
recognized what it would not see.
"You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!--" said Jonathan, in a
voice not clear.
"So he does--" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's
head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words
had shaken her.
"How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father
stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child.
Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted
her face and looked up--looked full into his eyes.
"Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way but _well?_"
The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening
himself instantly as if he had received a blow.
"Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' to _die?_"
It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would
understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been
heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her
cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever
heard from her voice--as unfearful--
"Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him."
"Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him
a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have
answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he
had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter.
Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too--but clear
and cheery.
"Yes, darling--and we'll be with him there by and by."
"Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary
sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith
and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he
had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to nobody and went out.
Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of
sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired
little spirit.
Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps
longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want
to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat,
leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very
uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer
room,--Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs.
Somers, were all there with offers of assistance; but Mr. Linden knew
well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben
had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various
tones of different voices--which made their way once in a while--the
two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat.
Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little
feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now passing on
before them.
"We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden
said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in
death as in life."
Much of the time the child slumbered--or lay in a half stupor, though
often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the
room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly,
asking for singing or reading or talk,--letting Faith smooth his hair,
or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of
her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the
mortal began to give way before the immortal.
In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was
in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said,
"Read about heaven--what you used to."
Mr. Linden took his little Bible--remembering but too readily what that
"used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation--
"'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.--And the city
had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the
glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the
nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the
kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the
gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no
night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that
defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they
that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'"
The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm
round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was
finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were
silent--thinking of "the city that hath foundations."
"That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if
his mind had gone back to the morning hymn.
"Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled,
and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little
child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus
lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever--and where
dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by."
The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he
looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet
sleep, but with the smile yet left.
It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where
the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between
seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pass beyond it,--when
the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith
wiped away tears--and looked--and brushed them away again; but for a
long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be
quietly,--
"Endecott--it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!"
He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down
then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the
same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through
all its deep human feeling,--
"'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book
and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed
us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people
and nation'!"
"And," said Faith presently, lower still,--"can't you, as Bunyan says,
hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!--"
Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to
mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the
hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick
child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succumbed gently, and the
restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day
gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers.
There was little "talk" called for after that time--hardly any, though
never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful,
pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny
slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in
the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious
have no worse resting-place--would let every faint waking minute find
the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly
refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little
immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of
failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was
almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."
Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid
long--never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps
unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own.
Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said
nothing. He seemed bewildered--or astounded. "I never knowed," he said
once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at
night--but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors--and
their word's about as good one side as 'tother."
At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was
there with the sleigh.
"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.
Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."
"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."
"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"--she said with a
determinate quietness.
"How can I let you stay?--you ought not to watch here all night--unless
there were something for you to do."
"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that
were what she wanted to stay for.
"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,--"Faith--it is
near the dawning!--and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear
child, you ought not to watch here."
"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.
"I know--" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full
sympathy with all her wishes,--"but I think you ought not."
"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,--"that you wish me to
go?"
It was hard for him to say yes--but he did.
She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and
arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a
cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her
ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her
face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any
kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been
looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she
had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled--but the
kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or
looking, Faith went away.
If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time
she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs.
Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not
very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a
little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to
put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all
in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time
to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words
were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did
in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for
she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep
as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother
sat by her in absolute stillness--thinking of Faith as she had been in
her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she
herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there--of
the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and
then--looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both
claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But
as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother
stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.
"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."
Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then
sank down again.
"I'll wait an hour yet."
"Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call
you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?"
"Send?--O no, mother!"
Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home
to-night, dear."
"Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful
look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she
kissed her mother and they went up stairs together.
No, he did not come home,--and well assured that he would not, Faith
ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their
way. The night was very still--the endless train of stars sweeping on
in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day
broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the
sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up,
in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost
breathless for more tidings--waiting, as if by the least noise or stir
she might lose something.
It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in--even as she sat so
listening,--heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet
step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not
been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again,
except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the
house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up
stairs--and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two
longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room
according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;--and
then gave way--rare for her--to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was
not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more
heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday
morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which
her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that
was quieting, if it was stirring.
Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his
appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn,
yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming
up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in
her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There
were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the
tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by
which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast--for
rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day
when Christ broke the bars of death and rose.
Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare
when it was over.
"You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden
said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room.
"O yes! I can go.--I _must_ go"--she added softly.
"I have not much to tell you,"--he said in the same tone,--"nothing,
but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me
by and by?"
"Yes.--After church?"
"After church in the afternoon would give us most time."
The Sunday classes were first met--_how_ was not likely to be forgotten
by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two
little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very
much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As
soon as she was where nobody need know what she did, Faith felt
unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till
the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons
that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come.
After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church
but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive--it
was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,--the afternoon
was well on its way.
The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a
low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr.
Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he passed
through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they
went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her
lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside.
They stood there and looked--as one might look at a ray of eternal
sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time.
The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him
down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his
hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint
pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills
at neck and wrists,--on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke
of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!"
With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady,
Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,--then knelt together,
and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might
themselves be found faithful.
"You shouldn't say _we_"--said Faith when they had risen and were
standing there again. "It was _you_--to him and me both." And bending
forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much
as he ever learned from me!"
But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any
more.
They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their
faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their
hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not
know--she could only guess.
There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with
snow,--not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and
few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the
morning,--since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew
towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road
towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time
to time, bending their steps in the same direction,--some sturdy farmer
in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round
each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in
the field.
The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a
faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the
snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through
their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their
splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road,
and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers
followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor
and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left
arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little
classmates--Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief
mourners--Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden
wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The
flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them
the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone--
"Through a dark stormy night,
To a calm land of light!"--
"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again,
Though now we part in pain!
His people all
Together Christ shall call,
Hallelujah!"
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when
the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and
Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a
word against _him_ again. Faith, he's beautiful!"