Dr. Landreth and his party reached Philadelphia in due season, arriving
in health and safety, having met with no accident or loss by the way.
Mrs. Dinsmore found her father and the family carriage waiting for her
and her baby boy at the depot.
The others took a hack and drove to the Girard House, where Miss
Stanhope, who had been visiting friends in the neighborhood of the
city, had appointed to meet them, that they and she might journey
westward in company. She was there waiting for them in a private parlor.
The meeting was a joyful one to the two ladies, who, though always
warmly attached, had now been separated for a number of years. They
clasped each other in a long, tender embrace; then Mildred introduced
her husband, and exhibited her baby with much pride and delight; Annis,
too, for she had quite grown out of Aunt Wealthy's recollection, and
had scarce any remembrance of the old lady, except from hearing her
spoken of by the other members of the family.
The travellers were weary with their journey, and there was much to
hear and tell; so the remainder of that day was given up to rest and
talk, a part of the latter being on the arrangement of their plans.
Mildred proposed that they should take a week or more for rest and
shopping, then turn their faces homeward.
"You must allow some time for sight-seeing, my dear," said her husband.
"It would be a great shame to carry Annis all the way out to Indiana
again without having shown her the lions of Philadelphia."
"Oh, certainly she must see them," said Mildred. "You can show them to
her while Aunt Wealthy and I are shopping."
"You intend, then, to shut me out of that business? How shall I know
that you will not be ruining me?"
"My dear," said Mildred, laughing, "you forget how rich you have made
me. I shall have no occasion to ruin anybody but myself."
"And as for me," remarked Miss Stanhope drily, "I have my own purse."
"And father has sent money to buy Ada's things, mother's, and Fan's,
too," added Annis. "But, Milly, I must have some share in the shopping,
too. I expect to enjoy that as much as the sight-seeing."
Mildred assured her she should have as much as she wanted, adding,
"But there will be a good deal which will not be likely to interest
you--napery and other housekeeping goods, for instance."
"Your share of those things will interest me, and must be paid for from
my purse," put in the doctor.
"Quite a mistake," said Miss Stanhope; "those are the very things a
bride or her parents are expected to supply."
"But Mildred is no longer a bride. Milly, my dear, I want you to help
me to select a dress for the bride that is to be."
Mildred looked up with a pleased smile. "Just like you, Charlie; always
thoughtful and generous!"
Ada Keith was the coming bride. She and Frank Osborne had been engaged
for some weeks, and expected to marry in the fall. This news had
increased Annis's desire to get home. She wanted, she said, to see how
Mr. Osborne and Ada acted, and whether they looked very happy.
"And just to think," she added, "when they're married Fan will be Miss
Keith, and we two will be the young ladies of the family."
"Ah, indeed! How old may you be, my little maid?" laughed the doctor.
"Most thirteen," returned the little girl, drawing herself up with an
air of importance.
"A very young young lady, most decidedly," he said with a humorous
look, bending down to pinch her rosy cheek as he spoke.
"I'm growing older every day," she answered demurely, edging away from
him. "Father told me a year ago that I'd soon be a woman."
"Quite soon enough, dear; don't try to hurry matters," said Aunt
Wealthy. "You can never be a little girl again."
Mildred, having brought a competent nurse with her thus far on her
journey, a colored woman who would serve her in the care of little
Percy while they remained in Philadelphia, then return to the South
with Mrs. Dinsmore, was able to give herself to the shopping without
distraction.
As she had foreseen, the greater part of that work fell to her and Miss
Stanhope, Dr. Landreth and Annis accompanying them constantly for a
day or two only, after that for an hour or so when something was to be
purchased in which they were specially interested.
But the two ladies were equal to the demand upon them; Mildred had had
a good deal of experience in shopping in the last few years, and Miss
Stanhope was a veteran at the business--an excellent judge of qualities
and prices--yet by reason of her absent-mindedness needed to have her
knowledge supplemented by the collected wits of her niece.
The old lady's odd ways and speeches often caused no little amusement
to all within sight and hearing.
One day she, her two nieces, and Dr. Landreth were in a large,
handsomely appointed dry-goods store, looking at silks and other costly
dress fabrics.
They had made several selections, and while the doctor and Mildred paid
for and saw the goods cut off and put up, Miss Stanhope moved on to the
farther end of the room, where she saw, as she thought, an open doorway
leading into another of similar dimensions and appearance.
As she attempted to pass through the doorway she found herself
confronted by a little old lady rather plainly attired. Miss Stanhope
nodded pleasantly, and stepped to the right. At the same instant her
_vis-à-vis_ nodded also, and stepped to her left, so that they were
still in each other's way. Miss Stanhope moved quickly to the other
side, but the stranger doing likewise, they did not succeed in passing.
Miss Stanhope stood still, so did the other, and for an instant they
gazed steadily into each other's eyes.
Then Miss Stanhope spoke in a gentle, ladylike, yet slightly impatient
tone: "I should like to go on into that part of the store, if you will
kindly permit me. Take whichever side you will; or, if you please,
stand where you are and let me step past you."
She attempted to do so, but again the stranger moved directly in front
of her.
"Madam," said Miss Stanhope, unconsciously raising her voice slightly,
"I will stand still if you will be good enough to step out of my way."
There was neither reply nor movement, but Miss Stanhope's ear caught
sounds of suppressed laughter coming from various directions in her
rear, and a clerk, stepping to her side, said, with an unsuccessful
attempt to preserve gravity of countenance and steadiness of tone,
"Excuse me, madam, but you are standing before a mirror. There is no
doorway there."
"Dear me! so I am! What an old simpleton not to recognize my own face!"
she exclaimed, joining good-naturedly in the laugh her mistake had
raised.
"Very good evidence that you are lacking in the vanity that leads
some to a frequent contemplation of their own features," remarked the
proprietor politely.
"Ah, sir, an old woman like me has small temptation to that," she
returned.
"What was it, Aunt Wealthy? What are you all laughing at?" asked Annis,
joining her.
"Just at a foolish mistake of your old auntie's, my dear, taking a
mirror for an open doorway, and her own reflection for another woman
who wouldn't get out of her way."
Annis could not help laughing a little, though she tried not to, lest
she should hurt the dear old lady's feelings.
"I'm not much surprised, auntie," she said, gazing into the mirror,
"for it does seem like looking into another store. I think I might
have made that mistake myself; but I never could have taken you for
anybody else, and it's odd you didn't know yourself."
"Ah, dearie, self-knowledge is said to be the most rare and difficult
thing in the world," returned Miss Stanhope pleasantly. "But come, I
see the doctor and Milly are waiting for us."
"We are going to some trimming stores now, Aunt Wealthy," said Mildred,
"and you will be able to match your zephyrs, I hope."
"Yes; I'll have my samples out ready to show," the old lady answered,
taking them from a small satchel which she carried upon her arm. "You
and the doctor walk on. Annis and I will follow. Take tight hold
of my arm, dearie," she added, holding it out as they stepped into
the street, "lest you should get separated from me and lost in the
crowd--the streets are so full, and everybody seems in the greatest
hurry."
"Yes," said Annis, doing as she was bidden, "so different from Pleasant
Plains; there one can hurry along or not as one likes without being
jostled. There! Milly and Brother Charlie have gone into a store, and
we must follow."
They hastened in, almost out of breath from their rapid walk. Miss
Stanhope gently shook off Annis's hand, stepped to a counter, holding
out her samples of zephyr, and addressing a clerk, remarked, "These are
lovely colors!"
"Yes," said the girl, staring; "but what of it, ma'am?"
"My aunt wishes to match them," said Annis with dignity, resenting the
half-insolent tone of the girl.
"Oh! go to the next counter."
They moved on, Miss Stanhope smiling to herself at her own mistake,
Annis with cheeks burning with indignation at the girl's rude stare and
supercilious tone.
"Don't forget what you want this time, auntie," she whispered, as they
paused before the next counter.
"No, dearie, but you mustn't mind your old auntie's blunders."
This time they were waited upon by a sweet-faced, modest maiden, who
showed herself both obliging and respectful.
Miss Stanhope found just what she wanted. But Mildred was not ready to
go yet, and while waiting for her the old lady and the little girl
amused themselves in examining the various contents of a showcase.
Annis admired a necklace of amber beads, and Aunt Wealthy bought it for
her; also another nearly like it for Fan.
"Anything else, ma' am?" asked the saleswoman, as she wrapped them up.
"Yes; one of those little purses," said Miss Stanhope; "it is just what
I want for small change and the trunk of my key, which I always carry
in my pocket when travelling."
With a slight smile the saleswoman handed out several.
Miss Stanhope made her selection, and the query, "Anything else?" was
repeated.
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the old lady, as with sudden recollection; "have
you any remnants?"
"Remnants? of what?"
"Dress goods."
"Oh, no; we keep nothing but trimmings and notions."
Mildred had finished her purchases, and coming up at that moment,
asked, "What is it, Aunt Wealthy?"
"Remnants."
"Oh, yes; of course you will want a supply of them," returned Mildred,
with a good-humored, slightly amused smile; "and yet what use can you
make of them now? Even Annis has grown too large for a remnant to make
her a dress."
"But there's Percy, and Zillah's boy, too," was the prompt reply;
"besides, they can be put to many uses about a house."
"Mightn't a remnant be big enough to make an apron for a lady even?"
asked Annis.
"Yes," said Mildred; "and as I know auntie enjoys buying them, we will
look for some."
They started at once on the quest, and Miss Stanhope was quite elated
and triumphant on finding, in two different stores, two remnants of
beautiful lawn, exactly alike, which together would make an ample dress
pattern for Annis, besides others that could be utilized for aprons
for her and Fan, dresses for the baby boys, or patchwork for quilts.
Remnants were quite a hobby with the old lady, and she could never feel
quite satisfied with the results of a shopping expedition that did not
include some bargains in that line.
Returning to their hotel they found letters from the Oaks and from
home awaiting them.
"Ah, Milly," remarked the doctor, with satisfaction, as he glanced over
his, "here are our measures. Rupert sends them."
"Then they are sure to be right," she responded.
"Measures for what?" inquired Miss Stanhope.
"Wall paper and carpets for our new house; it is ready for them."
"Oh, how nice!" cried Annis, clapping her hands. "May I go with you to
choose them, Brother Charlie?"
"We will be pleased to have your company and the benefit of your
taste," was the gallant rejoinder, "Aunt Wealthy's also."
"Thank you," said Miss Stanhope, absently. "I'm glad you're so near
being done with your house, and I think it's a good plan to buy your
paper here; but I'm afraid you'll have to put it on yourselves; for
though I remember there were some painterers in Pleasant Plains when I
was there, I don't think there were any papers at all, and everybody's
walls were whitewashed, as far as I can recollect."
"But you know that was some years ago, auntie," said Mildred, "and a
good many luxuries have been introduced since then, paper-hangers among
the rest."
"And the Keith family are so handy that they can easily do such work
for themselves, if necessary," laughed Annis. "The boys really did
paper our house, and paint it, too. Do you see, Milly," holding up a
letter, "this is from Elsie. She says she is having a lovely time all
alone with her papa, but misses us ever so much, and hopes we will come
back to spend next winter at the Oaks."
"Tell her, when you write, that we are greatly obliged, but the journey
is quite too long to take twice a year," returned Mildred gayly.
"And we couldn't spend every winter away from father and mother," added
Annis. "Oh, how glad I shall be to get home to them, and Fan, and the
rest! How soon can we start?"
"Time's up in another week," answered the doctor, "and I judge, by the
rate at which we've been going through the shopping and sight-seeing,
that we'll be ready by then."
[Illustration]
Chapter Fourth.
"Gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold!"--HOOD.
A beautiful spring day was drawing to a close as two persons--a young
man and a maiden--seated themselves on a fallen tree on the western
bank of the St. Joseph River. They had strolled a long distance from
home, leaving the noise and bustle of the town far behind. They were a
trifle weary with their walk, and it was pleasant to sit here and rest
in the cool evening air, sweet with the scent of wildwood flowers, with
the grass green about their feet, and no sound to break the stillness
save the song of the cricket, the gentle murmur of the breeze in the
tree-tops, and the soft ripple of the water flowing swiftly onward,
so bright and clear that it reflected, as in a mirror, its own grassy
wooded banks and the rich purple, gold, and amber of the sunset clouds,
while the pebbly bottom, with fishes great and small darting hither
and thither, could be distinctly seen.
For some time the two sat there silently, hand in hand, the girl's
eyes gazing steadily down into the water, her companion's fixed upon
her face with an expression of ardent admiration and intense, yearning
affection. It was a noble countenance, at this moment thoughtful and
grave, even to sadness.
"Ada, my love," he said at length, "it is a hard thing I am asking of
you. I am ashamed of my selfishness."
"No, no! do not talk so. How could I bear to let you go alone, you
who have no one in the wide world but me?" she answered, in a low,
tremulous tone, her eyes still upon the water; then suddenly turning
toward him, her face flushing with enthusiasm, her eyes shining
through tears, "But it is not you that ask it of me, Frank; no, not
you, but One who has every right; for has He not redeemed me with His
own precious blood? Is He not my Creator, Preserver, and bountiful
Benefactor, and have I not given myself to Him, soul and body, in an
everlasting covenant? And shall I keep back any part of the price? Oh,
no, no! Let me but make sure that it is His voice I hear saying, 'This
is the way; walk ye in it,' and I am ready to leave all and follow Him,
though it be to the ends of the earth."
"My darling," he said with emotion, tightening his clasp of the hand
he held, "you have the right spirit; you view this matter in the right
light. Yes, we are His, both of us, and may our only question of duty
ever be, 'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?' But if we see it our
duty to go, the sacrifice I make will be as nothing to yours, my sweet
girl."
"Yet it will not be small, Frank. To leave forever one's dear native
land is no slight thing, especially when it is to live among heathen
people--low, cruel, degraded idolators."
"That is true; and yet--oh, is there not joy in the thought of telling
the old, old story of Jesus and His love to those who have never heard
it, and who, if we do not carry it to them, may never hear it?"
"Yes, yes, indeed! and in the thought that we are literally obeying
His command, 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every
creature.' And how very slight will be our suffering and self-denial
compared to His!"
"But, Frank, how shall we determine this question? How know whether we
are truly called to this great work? Ah, it does not seem possible that
I should ever be deemed worthy of such honor!"
"We will continue to make it a subject of constant, earnest prayer,"
he said, "asking to be guided to a right decision; also we will open
our hearts to your parents, and consult them. If they refuse consent
to your going, we will see in that an indication that the Lord's will
is not that we should go. Laborers are needed here also, and it may be
that He will appoint us our work in this part of His vineyard."
"Yes," she said; "I could never feel it right to go if father and
mother should oppose it. Yet I am sure they will not, if they see
reason to believe we are called of the Master; for ever since I can
remember their most ardent wish for their children has been that they
might be entirely devoted to His service."
At that very moment the honored parents of whom she spoke, sitting side
by side in the vine-covered porch of their home, resting after the
labors of the day, were talking of their children, and rejoicing in the
well-founded belief that most, if not all, of them had already given
themselves to that blessed service.
They spoke of Mildred and Annis, the eldest and youngest, now on the
way home after their winter at the Oaks; of Rupert, their eldest son,
a prosperous and highly respected man of business; Cyril, absent at
college; Zillah, with her husband and babe, living just across the
street; of Ada and her betrothed; and, lastly, of the only two just
then in sight--Don and Fan--down in the garden, seated on a bench under
a spreading tree, the lad whittling, his sister watching him, with
hands lying idly in her lap.
There was languor in the droop of her slender figure; the eyes that
rested now upon Don's face, now on his work, were unnaturally large and
bright, and though a rich color glowed in her cheeks, her features were
thin and sharp.
"Stuart," said Mrs. Keith, in low, slightly tremulous tones, gazing
fixedly at Fan as she spoke, "I am growing uneasy about that child; she
is not well. She scarcely complains, but is losing flesh and strength
very fast of late."
"Only because she is growing so rapidly, I think, Marcia," he said;
"see what a brilliant color she has."
"Not the bloom of health, I fear," sighed the mother. "I am very glad
Dr. Landreth will be here soon. I hope he may be able to do something
for her."
"I hope so, indeed. Perhaps it is change of climate and scene she
needs. Probably it would have been better had she gone with the others
last fall."
"I don't know; it is too late to think of it now, but if Charlie
recommends a trip, we must manage to give it to her."
"Certainly; and in that case you will have to go too, for I doubt if
anything could induce Fan to leave her mother."
"No; what a dear, affectionate child she is! And how she and Don cling
to each other."
In the pause that followed that last remark Fan's low, clear tones came
distinctly to their ears.
"Ah, now I see what you are making, Don; a spoon, isn't it?"
"Yes; it'll be very useful in the journey across the plains."
"Whose journey?"
"Mine," he said; then sang gayly:
"O California! oh, that's the land for me!
I'm bound for Sacramento,
With the washbowl on my knee."
"That's the tune of 'O Susannah,'" she said, as he ceased; "but where
did you get those words?"
"Haven't you heard it before?" he asked. "They've been singing it all
over town; the gold fever's raging, and a lot of fellows are talking of
going off across the plains to the California diggings. If they do, I'd
like to make one of the party."
The parents, silently listening, exchanged glances of mingled surprise
and concern, while Fan exclaimed, "O Don, you can't be in earnest?"
"You'd better believe I am," laughed the lad. "Why, it would be the
greatest fun in the world, I think, to go and dig gold."
"Exceedingly hard work, my boy," Mr. Keith said, raising his voice that
it might reach the lad.
Don started and turned his head. He had not thought of any one but Fan
hearing his talk.
"But we wouldn't mind working very hard indeed for a little while to
make a fortune, father," he answered in a lively tone, springing up
and advancing to the steps of the porch, Fan following, and seating
herself upon them.
"Ah, but who can insure the making of the fortune?" asked Mr. Keith
gravely. "Where one will succeed, Don, probably hundreds will fail
and die of the great hardships to be encountered in the search
for gold--the exhausting toil, scanty fare, and exposure to the
inclemencies of the weather. It cannot fail to be a rough and toilsome
life, full of danger and temptation, too; for the desperadoes and
outlaws from all parts of the country, if not of the world, are always
among the first to rush to such places; and even men who behaved
respectably at home often throw off all restraint there, and act like
savages."
"Think, too, of the dangers to be encountered by the way, Don," said
his mother; "a trackless wilderness to cross, supplies of food and
water perhaps giving out, to say nothing of perils from wild beasts and
hostile Indians."
"Oh, mother," he said, "if you'd ever been a boy you'd know that danger
has great attractions sometimes."
"But oh, Don," exclaimed Fan, "just think what mother, and I, and all
of us would be suffering from anxiety on your account!"
"Ah, but you'd feel paid for it all when you saw me come home with my
pockets full of gold!"
"Gold far too dearly bought, if you came back to us a rough, hardened
man, instead of the dear boy you are now," said his mother.
"I've no notion of ever becoming a rough, mother mine," returned the
lad in a half-playful tone; "and what is virtue worth that can't stand
temptation?"
"Not much, my son," said his father gravely; "but what mockery to pray,
'Lead us not into temptation,' and then rush needlessly into it. But
let the subject drop, for I am quite resolved never to give my consent
to so wild a project."
The boy's face clouded, but, accustomed to obedience, he ventured no
reply. "Here, Fan, I'll give this to you," he said, handing her the now
finished spoon.
"Thank you; it is very pretty," she returned, regarding it admiringly.
"Fan, dear, I think the dew is beginning to fall," said Mrs.
Keith, rising; "come in; come both of you. We will adjourn to the
sitting-room."
They did so, and were there presently joined by Frank and Ada, who
came in hand in hand, their faces full of a strange mixture of joy and
sorrow. Mrs. Keith sat in a low rocking-chair, softly passing her hand
over Fan's hair and cheek, the young girl having seated herself on a
stool at her mother's side, and laid her head in her lap.
They, as well as Mr. Keith and Don, seemed to be silently musing as
the other two entered. But all four looked up at the sound of their
footsteps, and Mrs. Keith, noticing the unusual expression of their
countenances, asked a little anxiously, "What is it, Ada, my child?"
Ada opened her lips to reply, but no sound came from them. Hastily
withdrawing her hand from Frank's she sprang forward, and knelt beside
her sister.
"Mother, oh, mother, how can I ever leave you!" she exclaimed, tears
coursing down her cheeks.
Mrs. Keith was much surprised, knowing of no adequate cause for such
emotion, especially in one usually so calm and undemonstrative as Ada.
"Dear child," she said, caressing her, "we will hope never to be too
far apart for frequent intercourse. Frank's present charge is but a
few miles distant."
"But, mother, he thinks he is called to foreign missions," Ada returned
in trembling tones; "can you let me go? Can you give me to that work?"
The query, so sudden, so unexpected, sent a keen pang to the tender
mother's heart. With a silent caress she drew her loved child closer,
and they mingled their tears together.
"What--what is this I hear, Frank?" asked Mr. Keith huskily, starting
up and drawing nearer the little group; for Frank had followed Ada, and
stood looking down upon her, his features working with emotion.
With an effort he controlled it, and in a few words gave the desired
information. "He had for some time felt an increasing interest in the
foreign work, and desire to give himself to it should it be made plain
that he was called of God to that part of the field."
"Oh no, no!" cried Fan, putting her arms about her sister's neck, "we
can't spare you. Why mayn't Frank work for the Master here as well as
there? Laborers are needed in both places."
"Very true," said Frank, "and I trust our earnest desire is to be
guided to that part of the vineyard where the Master would have us."
"It shall be my prayer that you may," said the mother with emotion,
drawing Ada's head to a resting-place on her breast as she spoke; "and
dearly, dearly as I love my child, hard as it will be to part with her,
I cannot hesitate for a moment if the Master calls her to go."
"No, nor can I," Mr. Keith said, sighing and bending down to stroke
Ada's hair in tender, fatherly fashion.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Fifth.
"Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss."
--THOMSON'S _Seasons_.
The sweetest of May mornings; the sun shines brightly in a sky of
heavenly blue, wherein float soft, fleecy clouds of snowy whiteness,
casting faint shadows now here, now there, over the landscape. The
forest trees have donned their spring robes of tender green, and at
their feet the earth is carpeted with grass spangled with myriads of
lovely wild flowers of varied hues; the air is redolent of their sweet
breath and vocal with the songs of the birds in the tree-tops and all
the pleasant sounds of rural life. Everything seems so bright, so
fresh, and new that Annis, as the stage rolls rapidly onward, bringing
her every moment nearer home, is almost wild with delight, while the
older members of the party, if less demonstrative, are scarcely less
happy.
They counted the miles, as those at home were counting the hours and
the minutes. The journey from Philadelphia to Northern Indiana was far
more tedious and wearisome in those days than it is now, and they were
tired enough of travel to be glad to reach their journey's end; rest
would be delightful; but it was the thought of home and dear ones that
constituted their chief joy.
The stage was due in Pleasant Plains just at noon, and to-day, having
no hinderance from bad weather or bad roads, arrived punctually to the
minute. The mail was dropped at the post-office, a passenger at the
hotel.
"To Lawyer Keith's next?" queried the driver, bending down from his
high seat to bestow a roguish look and smile upon the impatient Annis.
"Yes," Dr. Landreth said, "we all belong there."
The stage was sweeping on again before he had half finished his
sentence.
In another minute it drew up at the gate, and oh the greetings, the
embraces that followed! the happy laughter, the looks of love, the
tears of joy! for to the younger ones the separation had seemed very
long, as, indeed, so far as Miss Stanhope was concerned, it really had
been.
The mutual affection of herself and niece was like that of mother and
daughter, and they had not seen each other's faces for more than ten
years. All the family loved the old lady, and she came in for her full
share of the joyous welcome. Zillah was there with her husband and
babe, and Ada had her betrothed by her side.
They sat down to dinner together, a large and happy party, most of them
more disposed for conversation, however, than for doing justice to the
fare upon which Celestia Ann had expended much thought and skill.
She was still with Mrs. Keith, devotedly attached to her and the whole
family, and no one had bestowed a heartier hug upon Annis, Mildred, or
even Aunt Wealthy, than this somewhat forward but very warm-hearted
maiden.
"You don't none o' ye eat half as much as you'd orter, considerin' what
a sight o' trouble I took a-gettin' up this dinner," she grumbled, as
she waited on the table. "I remembered all your likings--Miss Milly's,
and Miss Stanhope's, and Annis's--and done my best to foller 'em all.
I broiled the chickings, and smashed the 'taters, and took a sight o'
pains with the pies and puddin's; but you don't none o' you seem to
'preciate it, 'thout it's Don there, for here I'm a-carryin' out yer
plates half full every time."
"That's because we have been so bountifully helped," said Mildred.
"Father has heaped my plate with enough for two or three meals. So you
mustn't feel hurt, Celestia Ann, for I assure you I find your cookery
delicious."
"So do I," said Annis. "I haven't tasted as good since we left the
Oaks."
A chorus of complimentary remarks followed from the rest of the
company, and Celestia Ann's wounded vanity was appeased.
"Fan," Dr. Landreth remarked, looking across the table at her, "I think
you are the worst delinquent of all of us; you have eaten scarcely
anything, and I suspect it is no new thing, for you have grown thin
since I saw you last."
"Father says it's because I'm growing so fast," Fan said, blushing
with embarrassment, as she felt that all eyes were turned upon her.
"It's spring-time, too, and that is apt to make one lose appetite and
strength."
"I dare say you need change," remarked Annis wisely. "You see how well
and strong I am; don't you wish now you'd gone South with us?"
"No; I wouldn't have missed the nice time I've had with mother for
anything," returned Fan, her eyes seeking her mother's face with a look
of fond affection.
Mrs. Keith's answering smile was very sweet. "Yes," she said, "Fan and
I have had a very pleasant, happy time together. And now, with all our
dear ones restored," glancing fondly from Annis to Mildred and Aunt
Wealthy, "we shall be happier than ever."
"Home's a good place," remarked Don, pushing away his plate, and
settling himself back in his chair with the air of one whose appetite
is fully satisfied, "but I, for one, would like to see something of the
world."
"Time enough yet, my boy," remarked Dr. Landreth laughingly; "you may
well feel thankful that you are not forced out into it now, before you
are fully prepared for the battle of life."
Don looked slightly vexed and impatient. "Yes," he said, "that's the
way you all talk; it's wait, wait, wait, instead of 'strike while the
iron's hot.'"
"What iron?" inquired Mildred, with a look half of interest, half of
amusement.
"I want to go to California and dig gold," blurted out the boy; "but
father and mother won't hear of it, though there's a large party
starting from here next week."
"Oh, Don, what an idea!" exclaimed Mildred. "I'm glad you can't win
consent."
"I too," said the doctor. "Don, if you knew what the life is you would
not want to try it. I have had experience of it, you remember."
"Who are going from here?" asked Mildred.
Quite a list of names was given in reply, including those of several of
her familiar acquaintance.
"How will they go?" she asked, a look of grave concern coming over her
face.
"Across the plains," answered Rupert, "in wagons drawn by ox-teams. It
can't fail to be a slow and toilsome journey."
"And a dangerous one as well," added his mother, with a deprecating
look at Don.
"Yes, I know," said the lad, "but I'm fairly spoiling for a taste of
that, mother," he added, with a laugh.
She shook her head. "Ah, my boy, I wish you knew when you were well
off."
They left the table, and flocked into the parlor; but Mrs. Keith drew
Dr. Landreth aside, and whispered in his sympathizing ear her anxiety
in regard to Fan. She described every symptom without reserve, then
asked, with a look of deep solicitude, "What do you think of the case?"
"You must allow me a little time to study it, mother," he said; "but
I trust it will prove nothing serious. She must have rest, a tonic, a
daily walk of such length as she can take without undue fatigue, and
frequent drives. Those I can give her as I visit my country patients."
"Thank you," she said. "I have been very impatient for your return on
the dear child's account."
"What is that you are talking of, mother?" Mildred asked, joining them.
"Of Fan, Milly; she hasn't seemed well for some time, and I have been
consulting the doctor about her."
Mildred's eyes filled. "My darling little sister!" she exclaimed. "I
hope it is nothing serious?" She turned an eager, inquiring look upon
her husband.
"We will hope not, Milly," he said cheerfully. "As your father says,
she is growing fast, and, besides, this warm spring weather is apt
to cause a feeling of languor. I trust that with tender care and
watchfulness we may be able to help her to grow into strong, healthful
womanhood."
Both mother and sister looked relieved, and presently they rejoined the
others.
Frank Osborne was just taking leave. He must return to the duties of
his charge, and might not see them again for several days.
Ada left the room with her betrothed for a few last words.
When she entered the parlor again Aunt Wealthy, making room for her
on the sofa by her side, asked, "Are you to be settled near Pleasant
Plains, dear?" adding, "I hope so, for it would be very hard for you to
go far from father and mother, brothers and sisters, and for them to
have you do so."
Ada could not answer for a moment, and when she found her voice it was
tremulous with emotion.
"We do not know yet, Aunt Wealthy," she said. "It will be hard to leave
home and dear ones, but we are ready and willing to go wherever the
Lord may send us."
"Ada, what do you mean?" asked Mildred. "Surely, Frank has no thought
of seeking a foreign field?"
"Can't you give me up if the Master calls me away, Milly?" asked Ada,
taking her sister's hand and pressing it fondly in hers.
"In that case I would not dare hold you back if I could; His claim is
far stronger than mine," Mildred said, with emotion.
Then the whole story came out, and the matter was discussed in a family
council.
But they could go no farther than the expression of their opinions
and wishes. Frank had already offered himself to the Board of Foreign
Missions, and his going depended upon their acceptance or rejection.
"I hope they'll say, 'No, we think you can find enough to do where you
are,'" said Annis playfully, but with eyes full of tears, putting her
arms around Ada's neck and laying her cheek to hers as she spoke. "I'm
sure I don't know what we should ever do without you!" she went on. "I
don't like to have you go away even as far as the country church where
Frank preaches now."
"Well, dear, we won't borrow trouble; 'sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof,'" Ada said, holding her close, and fondly kissing the
rosy cheek.
"'And as thy days, so shall thy strength be,'" added Mrs. Keith. "Our
blessed Master will never lay upon any of us a heavier burden than He
gives us strength to bear."
"No," said Rupert. "And now--to turn to a pleasanter theme than the
possibility of losing Ada--Mildred, don't you want to go and take a
look at your new house, you, and the doctor, and anybody else that
cares to see it?"
"Oh, is it done?" cried Annis, suddenly forgetting her grief and
loosening her hold of Ada to clap her hands with delight.
"Yes, all but the papering and painting," replied Rupert.
"I move we all go in a body," said Mildred gayly.
"So many of us! People would stare," objected Fan, with her usual
timidity.
"What matter if they should?" laughed Mildred. "But it is only a step,
and there are very few neighbors near enough to watch our proceedings."
"And why shouldn't we be independent and do as we please?" remarked Don
loftily. "I vote in the affirmative. Come, let's go."
"A dozen of us, without counting the babies," murmured Fan, with a
little sigh. But she tried on the dainty white muslin sun-bonnet her
mother handed her, took Don's offered arm, and went with the rest.
As they passed from room to room Mildred's eyes shone with pleasure.
The plan of the house was the joint work of herself and husband,
embodying their ideas in regard to comfort and convenience. Rupert had
been left in charge of the work during their absence, and had acquitted
himself of the trust to their entire satisfaction.
Both returned him warm thanks, Mildred saying again and again, "I am
delighted, Ru; you have not forgotten or neglected the least of our
wishes."
"I am very glad it pleases you, Milly," he said, with a gratified look.
"It has been a labor of love to attend to it for you."
"It is quite done except the work of the papers and painterers, is it
not?" queried Aunt Wealthy.
"Yes," said the doctor; "and we will set the painters at work
to-morrow; the paperers as soon as our boxes of goods arrive."
[Illustration]
Chapter Sixth.
"We all do fade as a leaf."--Isa. 64:6.
Dr. Landreth and Mildred gladly availed themselves of a pressing
invitation to take up their old quarters at her father's until such
time as their own house should be entirely ready for occupancy.
There was general rejoicing in the family that that time was not yet;
they were so glad to have Mildred with them once more. Nor did she
regret the necessity for continuing a little longer a member of her
father's household, especially considering that this was Ada's last
summer at home.
There was always a community of interests among them, a sharing of
each other's joys and sorrows, a bearing of each other's burdens, and
so all were very busy, now helping Mildred prepare bedding and napery,
curtains, etc., and now Ada with her trousseau, and everything that
could be thought of to add to her comfort in the foreign land to which
she was going; for in due time Frank Osborne received word that he had
been accepted by the Board.
Many tears were shed over that news, yet not one of those who loved her
so dearly would have held Ada back from the service to which the Master
had called her. She was His far more than theirs, and they were His,
and would gladly give to Him of their best and dearest.
Others had given up their loved ones to go in search of gold--the
wealth of this world, that perishes with the using--parting from
them with almost breaking hearts; and should they shrink from a like
sacrifice for Him who had bought them with His own precious blood? and
to send the glad news of His salvation to those perishing for lack of
knowledge?
The train of emigrants for California had left at the set time, their
relatives and friends--in some cases wives and children--parting from
them as from those who were going almost out of the world, and might
never be seen again.
A journey to California is accounted no great thing in these days, when
one may travel all the way by rail; but in those times, when it was by
ox-teams and wagons, across thousands of miles of trackless wilderness,
over which wild beasts and savage Indians ranged, it was a perilous
undertaking.
So they who went and they who stayed behind parted as those who had but
slight hope of ever meeting again in this lower world.
Nearly the whole town gathered to see the train of wagons set forth,
and even Don Keith, as he witnessed the final leave-takings, the
clinging embraces, the tearful, sobbing adieus, was not more than half
sorry that he was not going along.
Fan drew the acknowledgment from him later in the day, when she
overheard him softly singing to himself:
"'I jumped aboard the old ox-team,
And cracked my whip so free;
And every time I thought of home,
I wished it wasn't me.'"
"Yes, that would have been the way with you, Don, I'm sure," Fan said;
"so be wise in time, and don't try it, even if father should consent."
"I don't know," he said, turning toward her with a roguish twinkle in
his eye; "I think another part of the song suits me better:
"'We'll dig the mountains down,
We'll drain the rivers dry;
A million of the rocks bring home,
So, ladies, don't you cry.'"
"That's easier said than done, Don," Fan remarked, with a grave,
half-sad look. "Oh, brother dear, don't let the love of gold get
possession of you!"
"I don't love it for itself, Fan--I hope I never shall--but for what it
can do, what it can buy."
"It cannot buy the best things," she said, looking at him with dewy
eyes; "it cannot buy heaven, it cannot buy love, or health, or freedom
from pain; no, nor a clear conscience or quiet mind. It will seem of
small account when one comes to die."
"Don't talk of dying," he said a little uneasily; "we needn't think
much about that yet--you and I, who are both so young."
"But a great many die young, Don, even younger than we are to-day."
She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and looked into his eyes
with tender sadness.
As he noted the words, the look, and the extreme attenuation of the
little hand, a sharp pang shot through his heart. Could it be that
Fan, his darling sister, was going to die? The thought had never
struck him before. He knew that she was not strong, that the doctor
was prescribing for her and taking her out driving every day, and he
had perceived that the older members of the family, particularly his
mother, were troubled about her, but had thought it was only permanent
loss of health they feared.
But the idea of death was too painful to be encouraged, and he put it
hastily from him. How could he ever do without Fan? There was less than
two years between them, and they had always been inseparable. No, he
would not allow himself to think of the possibility that she was about
to pass away from him to "that bourne whence no traveller returns."
He was glad that Annis joined them at that moment in mirthful mood.
"What's so funny, Ann?" he asked, seeing a merry twinkle in her eye.
"Oh, just some of Aunt Wealthy's odd mistakes. She was talking about
that first winter we spent here, when she was with us, you remember;
she said, 'The weather was very cold; many's the time I've had hard
work to get my hands up, my hair was so cold.' Then she was telling
something her doctor in Lansdale told her about a very dirty family he
was called to see. A child had the croup, and he made them put it into
a hot bath; he was still there the next morning, and saw them getting
breakfast; and telling about it Aunt Wealthy said, 'They used the water
to make the coffee that the child was bathed in.'"
"The doctor stayed and took breakfast with them, I suppose?" said Don
dryly.
"Not he," laughed Annis; "he said he was very hungry, and they were
kindly urgent with him to stay and eat, but he preferred taking a long,
cold ride before breaking his fast."
"I admire his self-denial," remarked Don, with gravity. "Anything else
of interest from Aunt Wealthy?"
"Yes," said Annis; "she was speaking of some religious book she had
been reading, and said she had bought it from a portcollier. And
yesterday, when I complained that I hated to darn my stockings, she
said, 'Oh, my dear, always attend to that; a stocking in a hole, or
indeed a glove either, is a sure sign of a sloven.'"
"Then," said Don gravely, "I trust you will be careful never to drop
yours into holes."
"Don't let us make game of dear, kind old Aunt Wealthy," Fan said, in a
gentle, deprecating tone.
"Oh, no, not for the world!" cried Annis, "but one can't help laughing
at her funny mistakes; and indeed she is as ready to do so as any one
else."
"Yes; and it's very nice in her," said Don.
For a while after that Don watched Fan closely, but noticing that she
was always cheerful, bright, and interested in all that was going on,
he dismissed his fears with the consoling idea that there could not be
anything serious amiss with her.
By midsummer Mildred was fairly settled in her own house, and work for
Ada was being pushed forward with energy and dispatch.
The wedding--a very quiet affair--took place in September. A few days
later the youthful pair bade a long farewell to relatives and friends,
and started for New York, whence they were to sail, early in October,
for China.
The parting was a sore trial to all, and no one seemed to feel it more
than Fan.
"Ada! Ada!" she sobbed, clinging about her sister's neck, "I shall
never, never see you again in this world!"
"Don't say that, darling," responded Ada in tones tremulous with
emotion. "I am not going out of the world, and probably we may be back
again in a few years on a visit."
"But I shall not be here," murmured Fan. "Something tells me I am going
on a longer journey than yours."
"I hope not," Ada said, scarcely able to speak. "You are depressed now
because you are not well, but I trust you will soon grow strong again,
and live many years to be a comfort and help to father and mother. I
used to plan to be the one to stay at home and take care of them in
their old age, but now, I think, that is to be your sweet task."
"I'd love to do it," Fan said; "I'd rather do that than anything else,
if it should please God to make me well and strong again."
"And if not, dear," Ada said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "He
will give you strength for whatever He has in store for you, whether it
be a life of invalidism, or an early call to that blessed land where
'the inhabitants shall not say, I am sick.'"
"Yes," was the whispered response; "and sometimes I feel that it is
very sweet just to leave it all with Him, and have no choice of my own."
"Thank God for that, my darling little sister!" Ada exclaimed with
emotion. "I have no fear for you now, for I am sure you are ready to go
if it shall please the Master to call you to Himself."
This little talk took place early in the day of Ada's departure, she
having stolen into Fan's room as soon as she was dressed, to ask how
the invalid had passed the night.
They were interrupted by the mother's entrance on the same errand.
Embracing both as they stood together, "My two dear daughters," she
said. Then to Fan, "You are up and dressed early for an ailing one, my
child."
"Yes, mother, I couldn't lie in bed this morning, the last that we
shall have Ada with us," Fan answered with a sob, and holding her
sister in a tighter clasp.
"The last for a time," Mrs. Keith returned cheerfully, though the tears
trembled in her eyes. "Missionaries come home sometimes on a visit,
you know, and we will look forward to that."
"And besides that, we know that we shall meet in the Father's house on
high; meet never to part again," whispered Ada, pressing her lips to
her mother's cheek, then to Fan's.
"But to be forever with the Lord," added Mrs. Keith. "Now, Fan dear,
sit down in your easy-chair till the call to breakfast, and after this
try to follow your Brother Charlie's advice--taking a good rest in the
morning, even if you have to breakfast in bed."
Unconsciously to herself as well as to others the excitement of the
preparations for Ada's wedding and life in a foreign land had been
giving Fan a fictitious strength, which immediately on her sister's
departure deserted her, and left her prostrate upon her bed.
Mother and the remaining sisters nursed her with the tenderest care,
and after a time she rallied so far as to be about the house again and
drive out occasionally in pleasant weather; but the improvement was
only temporary, and before the winter was over it became apparent to
all that Fan was passing away to the better land.
To all but Don and Annis. He refused to believe it, and she, with the
hopefulness of childhood, was always "sure dear darling Fan would soon
be better."
For many weeks the mother shrank from having her fears confirmed;
often, as she noted the gravity and sadness of the doctor's face, the
question trembled upon her tongue, but she could not bring herself
to speak it; but one day, seeing, as she thought, a deeper shade of
anxiety upon his face than ever before, she followed him from the room.
"Charlie," she said, in faltering accents, "I must know the truth
though my heart break. Tell me, must my child die?"
"Dear mother," he said, taking her hand in his and speaking with strong
emotion, "I wish I could give you hope, but there is none; she may
linger a month or two, but not longer."
"Oh, how shall I ever tell her!" sobbed the mother; "her, my timid
little Fan, who has always been afraid to venture among strangers,
always clung so tenaciously to home and mother!"
"I think she knows it," he said, deeply moved. "I have seen it again
and again in the look she has given me. And I doubt not God is
fulfilling to her the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"
"May the Lord forgive my unbelief!" she said. "I know that He is ever
faithful to His promises."
Returning to the sick-room she found Fan lying with closed eyes, a very
sweet and peaceful expression on her face.
Bending over her she kissed the sweet lips, and a hot tear fell on the
child's cheek.
Her blue eyes opened wide, and her arm crept round her mother's neck.
"Dearest mother, don't cry," she whispered. "I am glad to go and be
with Jesus. You know it says, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm
and carry them in His bosom.' I shall never be afraid or timid lying
there. Oh, He will love me and take care of me, and some day bring you
there too, and father, and all my dear ones; and oh, _how_ happy we
shall be!"
"Yes, love," the mother said, "yours is a blessed lot--to be taken so
soon from the sins and sorrows of earth. 'Thine eyes shall see the King
in His beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off....
Thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation, a tabernacle that
shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever
be removed, neither shall any of the cords thereof be broken. But
there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of broad rivers and
streams.... And the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick: the people
that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.'"
"Such sweet words," said Fan. "Oh, I am glad Ada has gone to tell the
poor heathen of this dear Saviour! How could I bear to die if I did not
know of Him and His precious blood that cleanseth from all sin!"
"Dearest child, do you feel quite willing to go?" Mrs. Keith asked,
softly stroking her hair and gazing upon her with tear-dimmed eyes.
"Yes, mother, I do now, though at first it seemed very sad, very hard
to leave you all to go and lie down all alone in the dark grave. But I
don't think of that now; I think of being with Christ in glory, near
Him and like Him. Oh, mother, how happy I shall be!"
The door opened, and Mildred came softly in. She bent over Fan, her
eyes full of tears, her features working with emotion. She had just
learned from her husband what he had told her mother.
"Dear Milly," Fan said, putting an arm about her neck, her lips to her
cheek, "has Brother Charlie told you?"
Mildred nodded, unable to speak.
"Don't fret," Fan said tenderly; "I am not sorry, though I was at
first. What is dying but going home? Oh, don't you remember how John
tells us in the Revelation about the great multitude that stood before
the throne and before the Lamb clothed in white robes and with palms in
their hands; and how the angel told him, 'These are they which came out
of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white
in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God,
and serve Him day and night in His temple; and He that sitteth on the
throne shall dwell among them.
"'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the
sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of
the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains
of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes'?
"Mother," turning to her with a glad, eager look, "may I not hope to be
one of them if I trust in Jesus and bear with patience and resignation
whatever He sends?"
"Surely, surely, my darling," Mrs. Keith answered, in tremulous tones.
"They stand in the righteousness of Christ, and so will all who truly
come to Him and trust only in His atoning sacrifice."
"Dear, dear Fan," whispered Mildred, caressing her with fast-falling
tears, "I don't know how to give you up. And oh, darling--but I wish I
had been a better sister to you!"
"Why, Milly, how could you have been?" Fan said, with a look and tone
of great surprise. "I am sure you were always the best and kindest of
sisters to me."
"No, not always," Mildred said, sorrowfully; "I used to be very
impatient with you at times when you were a little thing given to
mischief. But I feel now that I would give worlds never to have spoken
a cross word to you."
"Ah, we must often have made a great deal of trouble with our
mischievous pranks--Cyril, Don, and I"--Fan said, with a slight smile.
"Don't reproach yourself for scolding us, Milly; I am sure we deserved
it all, and more."
Mr. Keith was told the doctor's opinion that day, but the rest of the
family were left in ignorance of it for the present.
It was from Fan herself Don learned it at length. They were alone
together, and he was talking hopefully of the time when she would be
up and about again, and he would take her boating on the river, riding
or driving, and they would enjoy, as of old, long rambles through the
woods in search of the sweet wild flowers that would come again with
the warm spring days.
"Dear Don, dear, dear brother!" she said, giving him a look of yearning
affection, "do you not know that when those days come I shall be
walking the streets of the New Jerusalem, gathering such fruits and
flowers as earth cannot yield?"
A sudden paleness overspread his face, his eyes filled, and his lip
quivered. "Fan! Fan!" he cried, with a burst of emotion, "it can't be
so! You are too young to die, and we can't spare you. You are weak and
low-spirited now, but you will feel better when the bright spring days
come."
She smiled sweetly, pityingly upon him, softly stroking his hair with
her thin white hand as he bent over her.
"No, dear Don, I am not low-spirited," she said. "I am full of joy in
the prospect of being so soon with my Saviour. Brother Charlie says it
will not be very long now; a week or two, perhaps."
"I can't believe it! I won't believe it!" he groaned. "While there's
life there's hope. It can't be that you _want_ to go away and leave me,
Fan?" and his tone was gently, lovingly reproachful.
"No," she said, her voice trembling, "it is pain to think of parting
from you and the rest, especially our dear, dear mother, and yet I am
glad to go to be with Jesus. Oh, how I long to see His face, to bow at
His feet, and thank Him 'for the great love wherewith He hath loved
us.'"
"But you have a great deal to live for, we all love you so."
"'In thy presence is fulness of joy,'" she repeated; "'at thy right
hand there are pleasures forever more.'
"'For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were
dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.'
"'Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which
the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me
only, but unto all them also that love His appearing.'
"'For since the beginning of the world men have not heard, nor
perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O God, beside thee,
what He hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him.' O Don, would you
keep me from it all?"
"Only for a while," he said, struggling for composure. "It is too
dreadful to have you die so young."
"'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from henceforth,'" she
repeated. "'My people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in
sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places.' O Don, think of the
golden streets of the New Jerusalem, the beautiful river of the water
of life, the tree of life with its twelve manner of fruits, the white
robes, the golden harps, the crowns of glory; and that there will be no
more sickness, or sorrow, or pain; no more sin, no night, no need of a
candle to light them, nor of the sun, or the moon, the glory of God and
Christ lighting it always.
"Think of Jesus making me to lie down in green pastures and leading me
beside still waters."
"You seem just as sure, Fan, as if you were already there," he said, in
admiring wonder.
"Yes, Don, because the promise is sure--the promise of Jesus, 'I give
unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall any
pluck them out of my hand.'"
Celestia Ann came in at that moment, carrying a china cup and plate on
a small waiter covered with a snowy napkin.
"Here, I've fetched you a bit o' cream toast and a cup o' tea, Fan,"
she said. "I hope you kin eat it. But, dear me, you're lookin' all
tuckered out. I'll bet Don's been a-makin' you talk a heap more'n was
good fer ye. Now ye jest clear out, Don, and let's see if I can't be a
better nurse."
"I didn't mean to hurt her," Don said gruffly, trying to hide the pain
at his heart.
"No, and you haven't," said Fan, gazing lovingly after him as he turned
to go; "if I've talked too much, it was my own doing."
Don hurrying down-stairs and into the parlor, which he expected to find
empty, came suddenly into the midst of a little group--his father,
mother, and Mildred--conversing together in subdued tones.
He was beating a hasty retreat, thinking he had intruded upon a private
interview, when his father called him back.
"We have nothing to conceal from you, Don," he said, in tremulous
tones, and the lad, catching sight of the faces of his mother and
sister, perceived that they had both been weeping. "I suppose you know
that--" Mr. Keith paused, unable to proceed.
"Is it about Fan?" Don asked huskily. "Yes, sir; she has just told me.
But oh, I can't believe it! We must do something to save her!" he burst
out, in a paroxysm of grief.
"What's the matter?" cried Annis, coming dancing into the room in her
usual light-hearted fashion, but startled into soberness at sight of
Don's emotion and the grief-stricken countenances of the others.
Her mother motioned her to her side, and putting an arm about her,
kissed her tenderly, the tears streaming over her face. "Annis, dear,"
she said, in broken accents, "perhaps we ought not to grieve, Fan is so
happy, but it makes our hearts sad to know that very soon we shall see
her loved face no more upon earth."
"Mother!" cried Annis, hiding her face on her mother's breast and
bursting into wild weeping, "O mother, mother, it can't be that she's
going to die! She can never bear to go away from you!"
"Yes, dear, she can," was the weeping rejoinder. "She finds Jesus
nearer and dearer than her mother, and how can I thank Him enough that
it is so?"
"We have sent for Cyril," Mr. Keith said, addressing Don, and handing
him a letter. "He hopes to be with us to-morrow. She could not go
without seeing him once more."
A little later Don, left alone with Mildred, asked, "O Milly, is there
no hope? no possibility of a favorable change?"
"None so far as man can see," she answered through her tears and sobs.
"But with God all things are possible."
"I've been talking with her," he said presently, when he could control
his emotion sufficiently to speak; "she told me herself that--that she
was--going away. And she seemed so happy, so utterly without fear, that
I could hardly believe it was our timid little Fan--always shrinking so
from going among strangers."
"Yes," said Mildred, "what a triumph of faith! Her fearlessness is not
from any lack of a deep sense of sin, but because she is trusting in
the imputed righteousness of Christ. She trusts Him fully, and so her
peace is like a river. It continually brings to my mind that sweet
text in Isaiah, 'And the work of righteousness shall be peace; and the
effect of righteousness quietness and assurance forever.'"
And so it was to the very end; the sweet young Christian passed away
so calmly and peacefully that her loved ones watching beside her bed
scarce could tell the precise moment when her spirit took its flight.
There was no gloom in the death-bed scene, and there seemed little
about the grave as they laid her body tenderly down there to rest till
the resurrection morn, knowing that the spirit was even then rejoicing
in the presence and love of her Redeemer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Seventh.
"Heaven, the perfection of all that can
Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony,
Health, beauty: and all these not subject to
The waste of time, but in their height eternal."
--SHIRLEY.
"We have no need to weep for her, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said,
softly stroking Elsie's hair as she lay sobbing in his arms, an open
letter in her hand.
"No, papa, not for her, I know; but for the others. See, Annis's letter
is all blistered with her tears, and she says it seems at times as if
her heart would break. And Don; oh, she says Don is almost wild with
grief; that he tells her he can hardly bear to be in the house, it is
so lonely and desolate without Fan."
"Yes, I have no doubt they miss her sorely; yet time will assuage their
grief; they will come to think less of their own loss and more of her
blessedness."
Elsie lifted her face and wiped away her tears. "Is it not wonderful,
papa," she said, "that Fan, always so timid and retiring, always
clinging so to her mother and home, should be so willing and even glad
to go?"
"Yes," he said; "it shows what the grace of God can do. She must have
been given a very strong sense of her Saviour's love and presence with
her as she passed through the valley of the shadow of death. It helps
one to stronger faith in the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall
thy strength be.'"
Rose, sitting by reading a letter with fast-falling tears, wiped them
away at that, and looking up, said, "Let me read you some things that
Mildred tells me about her last hours."
"We will be glad to hear them," Mr. Dinsmore answered, and she began:
"'It was the loveliest death-bed scene--no fear, no desire to stay. As
I stood beside her, an hour or two before the messenger came, I leaned
over her and repeated the words, "The eternal God is thy refuge, and
underneath are the everlasting arms."
"'She looked up with the sweetest smile. "Yes," she said, "Jesus is
with me, and I am not afraid; He will carry me safely through the
river."
"'Mother added: "And to a beautiful home--one of the many mansions He
has prepared for His people. You may be sure it is very lovely, very
delightful with everything you can possibly desire; for the wealth of
the universe is His; He has all power in heaven and in earth; and you,
for whom He has been making it ready, are dearer far to His heart than
to mine.
"'"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the
heart of man, the things that God hath prepared for them that love Him."
"'Her look was ecstatic as she listened. "Oh, how happy I shall be!"
she exclaimed. "And it will seem only a very little while till you will
all join me there."
"'She has brought heaven very near to us all,' Mildred added. 'It seems
far more real to me than it ever did before. She has entered into the
joy of the Lord, and we cannot mourn at all for her, though our hearts
are sore with our own loss.
"'"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." Does
He not gather them home with joy and rejoicing to the mansions His love
has made beautiful beyond compare for them? I think our little Fan was
so dear to Him that He could no longer spare her to us, nor was willing
to leave her any longer in this world of sin and suffering. That is
our mother's feeling, father's too, I think; and no one could be more
resigned, more perfectly submissive, than they are.'"
"Yes, Marcia is a devoted Christian," Mr. Dinsmore said; and, drawing
Elsie into a closer embrace, "I feel deeply for her in this sore
bereavement."
He was asking himself, as again and again he pressed his lips to his
daughter's fair brow, how he could ever endure such a loss.
There had been a steady correspondence between Rose and Mildred, Annis
and Elsie, ever since the winter spent at the Oaks by Dr. and Mrs.
Landreth and Annis.
Housekeeping cares and discussions in regard to the best manner of
rearing their little ones filled no small part of the letters of the
two young mothers.
Elsie and Annis wrote of their studies, amusements, and the every-day
occurrences in each family.
Thus Annis had learned about the life Elsie and her father led together
while Rose was absent, of their journey to Philadelphia when he found
himself able to go for his wife and little Horace, the visit there, and
the return trip; and Elsie had been kept informed, among other events,
of the progress of Fan's sickness; and the letter received to-day had
given an account of her death and burial.
"Papa," Elsie asked, lifting her weeping eyes to his face, "what can I
say to comfort poor dear Annis?"
"Just what I have been asking myself in regard to Marcia," he remarked,
with a deep-drawn sigh.
"And I about Mildred," Rose said, echoing the sigh. "I know of scarcely
anything more delicate and difficult than the writing of a letter of
condolence."
"It is extremely so in a case where there is any doubt of the happiness
of the departed," Mr. Dinsmore said; "but comparatively easy when we
know that to the dear one gone to be absent from the body is to be
present with the Lord. Also that the mourners are of those who have a
good hope through grace that it shall be so with themselves."
"I shall look for Bible words," Elsie said, leaving her father's knee
to get her own little copy, lying on a table near at hand.
"Bring it here, and let us look it over together," her father said; and
obeying with alacrity, she again seated herself upon his knee.
Rose brought another Bible and a concordance, and joined them in their
search for whatever the blessed Book could tell them of the employments
and enjoyments of heaven. They found it spoken of as a rest, as the
Father's house, a heavenly country, the kingdom of Christ and of God;
that they who overcome and reach that glorious place shall eat of the
hidden manna, shall walk with Christ in white; that He will wipe away
all tears from their eyes; that He will feed them and lead them unto
living fountains of waters; that He will dwell among them, and they
shall serve Him day and night in His temple.
That "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall
the sun light on them, nor any heat;" that they have palms of victory,
white robes, and crowns, and harps of gold; and that they stand before
the throne and sing a new song, which no man can learn but those who
are redeemed from the earth.
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be
no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any
more pain: for the former things are passed away."
"Papa," said Elsie, "Enna told me once she didn't want to go to heaven
and stand and sing all the time; she would get tired of that. I feel
as if I should never grow weary of singing God's praise. I love those
words of one of our hymns:
"'When we've been there
Ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days
To sing God's praise
Than when we first begun.'
"But surely singing is not the only employment there; for here in the
twenty-first chapter of Revelation it says, 'And the nations of them
which are saved shall walk in the light of it.' Then in the third verse
of the next chapter, 'The throne of God and the Lamb shall be in it;
and His servants shall serve Him.' Don't you think that means that He
will give us some work to do for Him?"
Her face was full of an eager joy.
"Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, "I do. Just what it will be the Bible does
not tell us, but to those who love the Master it must be a delight to
do whatever He bids. The rest of heaven will not be that of inaction,
but the far more enjoyable one of useful employment without any sense
of weariness.
"Perhaps He may sometimes send His redeemed ones on errands of mercy or
consolation to the inhabitants of this or some other world."
"How sweet that would be!" exclaimed Elsie, joyously. "Papa, if I
should go first, what happiness it would be to come back sometimes and
comfort you in your hours of sadness."
"I should rather have you here in the body," he said, tightening his
clasp about her waist.
"God has not seen fit to gratify idle curiosity in regard to these
matters," he resumed, "but He has told us enough to leave no room for
doubt that heaven is an abode of transcendent bliss."
"Yes, papa, just to know that we will be forever with the Lord--near
Him and like Him--is quite enough to make one long to be there. Dear,
dear Fan! How blest she is! Who could wish her back again!"
"No one who loves her with an unselfish love. And now I think we may
write our letters."
"No doubt they already know all that we can tell them, for they are
students of the Word, every one," observed Rose. "Yet it does one good
to have these precious truths repeated many times."
"Yes," said her husband, "we are so prone to forgetfulness and
unbelief, and Satan is so constantly on the watch to snatch away the
word out of our hearts and destroy our comfort, if he could do nothing
more."
"Papa," said Elsie, "I sometimes feel so afraid of him; then I remember
that Jesus is so much stronger, and I seem to run right into His arms,
and am full of joy that there I am so safe. You know He says of His
people, 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish,
neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"
"No, not all the powers of hell can do it, for 'He is able to save them
to the uttermost that come unto God by Him.' He said, 'All power is
given unto me in heaven and in earth.' And 'I am persuaded that neither
death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things
present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other
creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is
in Christ Jesus our Lord.'"
[Illustration]
Chapter Eighth.
"Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again."
Mildred was in her pretty sitting-room busily plying her needle, little
Percy playing about the floor--rolling a ball hither and thither.
Both mother and child were neatly attired--the little one in spotless
white, his golden curls hanging about his neck, and half-shading a
round rosy face with big blue eyes; the mother in a dark cashmere,
which fell in soft folds around her graceful figure, and was relieved
at throat and wrists by dainty white ruffles of lace; her hair was
becomingly arranged, and she had never presented a more attractive
appearance, even in the days of her girlhood.
Mildred was not one of those who are less careful to please the husband
than the lover; she studied Charlie's tastes and wishes even more
carefully now than had been her wont before they were married. Perhaps
in that lay the secret of his undiminished and lover-like devotion to
her.
Both he and she had a great aversion to mourning, therefore were glad
that Fan had particularly requested that none should be worn for her.
It was a little past their usual hour for tea, and the open dining-room
door gave a glimpse of a table covered with snowy damask and glittering
with polished silver, cut glass, and china; but Dr. Landreth was
closeted with some one in his office on the other side of the hall,
and his wife waited the departure of the patient a trifle anxiously,
fearing that her carefully prepared viands would lose their finest
flavor, if not be rendered quite tasteless by standing so long.
"Shall I make de waffles in de iron, ma'am?" asked Gretchen, coming to
the door.
"No, not yet," said Mildred, "they would be cooked too soon; the doctor
likes them best just as they are ready."
"De iron gets too hot," observed the girl.
"Yes, take it off, Gretchen. I can't tell just how soon the doctor will
be in, so we will have to keep him waiting while we heat the iron."
The girl went back to her kitchen, and Percy, dropping his toys, came
to his mother's side with a petition to be taken into her lap.
She laid aside her sewing, took him on her knee, and amused him with
stories suited to his baby mind.
At length she heard the office door open, and a familiar voice saying,
"Well, Charlie, I shall take the matter into consideration. Am much
obliged for your advice, whether I follow it or not."
Mildred hastily set Percy down, and ran to the door.
"Rupert," she said, "won't you stay to tea?"
"Thank you, Milly, not to-night," he answered. "I have already declined
a warm invitation from Charlie." And with a hasty "Good-by" he hurried
away.
Mildred thought her husband's face unusually grave, even troubled, as
he came into the sitting-room, and a sudden fear assailed her.
"Charlie," she cried, her cheek paling, "what--what was Rupert
consulting you about?"
"Don't be alarmed, Milly, love," he answered, taking his boy upon one
arm and putting the other about her waist.
"I have thought for some time that Rupert was growing thin and
haggard," she said brokenly, tears filling her eyes, and--"O Charlie, I
have often noticed, and heard it remarked, that one death in a family
is apt to follow closely upon another."
She ended with a sob, laying her head on his shoulder.
"Don't ky, mamma," cooed little Percy, patting her cheek; "oo baby boy
tiss oo, make oo all well."
She lifted her head, returned the caresses lavished upon her by both
husband and child, then asked earnestly and half pleadingly, "Won't you
tell me if--if Rupert is seriously ill?"
"He is broken down with overwork; has been devoting himself too closely
to business, and needs an entire change for a time," replied her
husband, speaking in a cheerful tone. "If he will take that at once and
for a long enough time he may, I think, be restored to full health and
vigor."
"Surely, surely he will do so without delay?"
"I can't say; he thinks it almost impossible to leave his business at
present, and would rather try half-way measures first."
"He must be persuaded out of that, and I think can be," she said, her
countenance brightening. "Now you must excuse me for a few minutes, my
dear; Gretchen is improving, but I cannot yet trust her to bake your
waffles quite to my mind."
"Let her try, Milly; how else is she ever to learn?"
"I shall after I have seen that the iron is properly heated and
filled," she answered, as she hastened away to the kitchen.
Celestia Ann was at the front gate as Rupert neared it. She turned her
head at the sound of his footsteps.
"So here you be at last!" she exclaimed; "and I was lookin' right in
the wrong direction. Been up to the doctor's, I s'pose? Well, they're
set down to the table without ye. We waited a spell, an' then I told
your mother t'want no use, fer ye don't eat nothin' nohow, let me fix
up the victuals good's I can."
"I am late, and am sorry if the meal has been kept waiting," Rupert
answered, as he hurried past her into the house.
His mother gave him a kindly affectionate smile as he entered the
dining-room, and stopped his apology half way.
"Never mind, my son, it is no matter, except that your meal will not, I
fear, be quite so good and enjoyable, which is a pity, as your appetite
is so poor of late."
There was some anxiety in her look and tone, also in the glance his
father gave him as he seated himself at the table.
"I fear you are working too hard, Rupert," he said; "confining yourself
too closely to business."
"Just what Charlie has been telling me," the young man responded with a
half sigh; "but how is it to be helped?"
"By putting health before business," his mother said, with decision.
"My dear boy, if you lose your health, what will become of your
business?"
"True, mother," he sighed; "but I have not quite given up the hope that
I may regain the one without relinquishing the other."
"A pound of prevention is worth an ounce of cure," remarked Aunt
Wealthy absently, rather as if thinking aloud than addressing the
company.
"What does Charlie advise?" asked Mrs. Keith.
"An entire change for some months or a year, including a journey to
some distant point. Quite impracticable, is it not, father?" Rupert
asked, turning to him.
"If you want my opinion," replied Mr. Keith, "I say nothing is
impracticable which is necessary to the preservation of your life or
even of your health. We cannot spare you, my son," he continued with
emotion; "it is to you more than any of the others that your mother and
I look as the prop and support of our old age."
"Thank you, father," Rupert said with feeling; "that pleasing task
would, of course, naturally fall to me as the eldest son, though if
I were taken away, my brothers, I am sure, would be no less glad to
undertake it."
"No; it would be the greatest joy in life," said Don with warmth,
glancing affectionately from one to the other of his parents. "I can
answer for Cyril as well as myself."
"I haven't the least doubt of it, Don," replied his father, while the
mother said, with glistening eyes, "We are rich in the affection of
our children, both boys and girls," she added, with a loving look into
Annis's blue eyes.
The eyes filled with tears. Annis was thinking how often she had heard
Fan say that she was to be the one always to stay at home and take
care of father and mother; dear Fan, who had now been nearly two months
in heaven.
Oh, how they all missed her at every turn, though Annis strove
earnestly to supply her place.
Leaving the table, they all repaired to the sitting-room; but Don,
after lingering a moment, took up his cap, and moved toward the hall
door.
"Don't forsake us, Don," said his mother, following his movements with
a look of mingled love and sadness. It was no secret to her that the
house seemed to him unbearably desolate, deprived of the loved presence
of his favorite sister.
"Only for a few minutes, mother; I want a chat with Wallace, and this
is about the best time to catch him at leisure."
"My poor boy!" sighed Mrs. Keith, as the door closed on him.
"Yes, he feels very sad and lonely," said Rupert. "But I am glad he
has left us for a little while, for I want to have a talk with you and
father about him; myself also," he added, with a faint smile. "Don't
go, Aunt Wealthy," as Miss Stanhope rose as if to leave the room;
"what I have to say need be no secret from you, and I think we will all
be glad of your counsel in the matter."