White Robes
THE summer passed away, the hot, tiring weather departed, and cool
winds began to blow over the churchyard. The leaves on the trees were
changing colour, the flowers on the two graves were dying one by one,
the ground in the early morning was wet with heavy dew, the swallows
that lived in the old church were consulting with their friends about
flying to a warmer country, yet still little Stephen, contrary to the
doctor's expectation, lingered on. He was growing much weaker, but he
was very happy, and he was not at all afraid of what was coming. He was
going to the King's Garden, he said, and the flowers would not fade
there.
Audrey spent every spare moment of the day by his side, and he lay for
hours in Granny Robin's arms whilst she talked or sang to him.
His thoughts were still very busy about the old graves in the
churchyard.
"I shall look for all of them in the Garden—" he said, "for Audrey's
John, and for my John, and for Mary, relict of the above. Wouldn't
you like to see them, Granny Robin? And I shall tell them Audrey is
taking care of their graves. But I think I shall look first for the two
grandchildren who died young. I think they will be my little friends,
like Audrey is here."
"But there's Someone you will like to see best of all," said Granny
Robin.
"Yes, the King," said little Stephen, "the dear Son. Will He talk to
me, Granny Robin?"
"Yes, my darling," she said; "He will feed you, and He will lead you to
fountains of living waters, and you shall see His face, and His name
shall be in your forehead. You could never enter the Garden if He had
not died for you, and brought you into the Kingdom of Light."
"I think I shall soon go now," said little Stephen. "Perhaps I shall be
there to-morrow, Granny Robin."
She took a very tender leave of him when his father came to carry him
home to bed. He seemed more tired than usual that night, she thought;
perhaps he had talked too much. He would be rested in the morning, she
said to herself, as she took up her knitting. She could not see what
Stephen's father saw as he lifted him from her knee—that a change was
creeping over his little thin face. Aunt Cordelia saw it, too, as she
came to kiss him when he was carried past her window; and she followed
Stephen's father home, and helped him to undress the little boy, and to
lay him in bed.
"Thank you," said little Stephen, as he laid his head on the pillow;
"I'm so tired."
Aunt Cordelia sat down at the foot of the bed, and his father held his
little hand in his, and turned away, that Stephen might not see his
tears.
All was very still, and they thought that he had fallen asleep, when he
looked up and said—
"I've never said 'Good-night' to Audrey."
Aunt Cordelia went to fetch her. Audrey was in bed, but she wrapped her
in a shawl and carried her in.
Little Stephen sat up, put his arms round her neck, and whispered—
"Don't forget the two grandchildren, Audrey; you'll keep them nice,
won't you? Good-bye!"
When Audrey had gone, he seemed to be sleeping again, and his father
and Aunt Cordelia sat quite still, fearing to disturb him.
It must have been more than two hours after this, that he stirred again.
"What is it, Stephen?" asked his father. "What is it, my dear little
lad?"
"The graves—" said Stephen. "I never looked out to-night; take me to
look at them, father."
His father lifted him very gently and tenderly, and carried him to the
window.
It was full moon, and the churchyard was filled with the pale silvery
light. The grave of the two grandchildren was bathed in the moonlight;
and the child lay in his father's arms for a long time, looking at it.
Then he suddenly raised his head, and said, with a cry of gladness—
"Father, the angels have come! I can see them to-night."
And then his head fell back heavily on his father's arm.
Yes, the angels had come, and the little Child of Light had gone away
with them.
It was only Stephen's tiny worn-out body which his father laid back on
the bed. Stephen was gone. He had passed above the churchyard; he had
left the old city behind; he had gone higher than the moonlight, higher
and higher still, to the King's Garden.
Were the two grandchildren who died young looking out for him at the
glorious gate? Was the mother who had died when he was born waiting and
watching for her boy? We cannot tell, we do not know; but we can tell,
we do know, that the dear Lord he loved, the Saviour who had taken
away his sin, and who had removed him from the Kingdom of Darkness
to the Kingdom of Light, was there to welcome him to His paradise of
everlasting glory, where the Children of Light dwell in no earthly
sunshine, but the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the
Light thereof.
They all missed him terribly, yet they tried to comfort themselves by
thinking of his joy, and they all looked forward to the day when they
would see him again.
"Mr. Robin, sir, you must teach me as you taught my little lad," said
Stephen's father, as they walked home from the tiny grave in the
cemetery where Stephen's body had been laid.
"God helping me, I will!" said Mr. Robin, with tears in his eyes.
It was wonderful how Stephen's loss drew them all together. Even Aunt
Cordelia, who used to pride herself on making no neighbours, seemed to
have become one of a very loving family. As for old Joe, his one desire
was to do all the little lad would have liked him to do. He comforted
Audrey, he watered the graves, he went to church on Sunday—above all,
he said the prayer Stephen had taught him, and he tried to walk as one
of the Children of Light.
Mr. Robin and Audrey made another expedition to the market on a
Saturday afternoon late in the autumn. Audrey's face was very sorrowful
this time as she carried the basket. They were not buying flowers, for
there were few flowers in the market now; they were looking for bulbs,
and the bulbs were for little Stephen's grave.
"I think they ought to be white," said Audrey, with a sob; "it will
look more like a Child of Light—won't it, Mr. Robin?"
So they chose white snowdrops, white crocuses, and large white
hyacinths for the little grave in the cemetery.
It was one of a long row of little graves, children's graves, which had
been made side by side, at the edge of the path. Very carefully, very
tenderly, they worked at it, and the bulbs were planted and covered
over with soil.
"It doesn't look very pretty now," said Audrey; "it is all brown and
bare."
"Wait a bit," said Mr. Robin; "we will come again in the spring."
So the winter came, and the white snow lay thick on Stephen's grave
in the cemetery, and in the churchyard on the grave of the two
grandchildren who died young. But when the warm spring sunshine had
melted the snow, and was turning the trees green, and bringing the
flowers on the lilac bush, the old man and Audrey went once more to the
cemetery.
A tiny white stone now stood at the head of the small grave, and on the
stone they read these words:
LITTLE STEPHEN,
WHO DIED YOUNG,
A CHILD OF LIGHT.
And in front of the stone was a lovely mass of pure white flowers.
"It looks beautiful," said Audrey, with a sigh. "I do wish he could see
it."
"It's a good picture of the little lad now," said the old man; "for
does not the Lord say, 'They shall be like unto the angels'? And of
the angels we read, 'Their raiment is white as the light.' Yes, the
Children of Light are clothed in the robes of light, even fine linen,
clean and white, which is the righteousness of the saints. Once they
were covered with sin, but now they are white and clean, made white in
the blood of the Lamb, whiter than snow."
"I wish we were all there," said Audrey, "you, and me, and Granny
Robin, and Aunt Cordelia, and Stephen's father, and old Joe. Wouldn't
Stephie be glad if we were to come?"
As they walked home, Mr. Robin taught Audrey a little hymn, which she
liked very much, and which she always repeated afterwards, when she
came to look at Stephen's grave.
"'Within the gate, they dwell at home,
In rest, in life, in light;
No grief, no sin, no care can come,
But all is glad, is bright
Within the gate.'"
"'Without the gate, our weary feet
Still tread the vale of tears;
We often sin; our anxious hearts
Are sometimes filled with fears,
Without the gate.'"
"'Open the gate, Lord Jesus! Come,
Thou whom our hearts love well,
And bid us enter Thy dear home,
Where Thy beloved dwell.
Open the gate!'"
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.