THE FUNERAL.
It was a bright and sunshiny day, and so warm as to make the snow moist
and yielding beneath the foot--such a day as children love and choose
for their happiest sports; but to at least two children it was anything
but a day of pleasure. Poor Mrs Gilman's little James had lingered on
beyond all expectation, and finally died, calmly and quietly, as if he
had been composing himself for sleep. And so it was--a long sleep.
This was the day on which the little one was to be buried, and Harry
and Effie were sincere mourners. Not like the poor mother--oh no, no one
could feel like her--but they wept as one child of adversity weeps for
another, all through life, from the cradle to the grave.
Children are sad when they see those of their own age falling like the
spring flowers around them; and when the little infant grows cold and
lifeless in its cradle, beneath a loving mother's eye, and is borne away
to the silent, lonely graveyard, they insensibly grow thoughtful, and if
they have been deprived of previous instructions, death becomes their
teacher, and for a little time they grow wise beneath the influence of
his lessons.
But Harry and Effie had not been thus deprived, and as hand in hand
they followed the little coffin to the grave, through their tears of
sadness and sympathy there gleamed out a bright and elevated expression,
almost a happy one, which shewed that they looked beyond these
sorrow-claiming objects, and saw the suffering child they had loved and
pitied a redeemed spirit of light. They could see that the little
flower, which had drooped and faded in the atmosphere of this world,
grew bright and beautiful in the sunshine of immortal love. They knew
that the kingdom of God was made up of just such little children--those
who had died before they knew anything of the sin and wickedness of this
world; or having known it, having grown old and gray beneath its heavy
burden, had laid all at the feet of Jesus, and in spirit gone back to
helpless, guileless infancy again.
They knew that their little friend now dwelt with that dear Saviour,
who, when on earth, blessed little children, who gathers the lambs in
His arms, and carries them in His bosom. Yet it was a sad day for them,
for they mourned the dead, as mortals always mourn when mortals die,
although they did not wish him back, and they pitied the living. More
tears were indeed shed for Mrs Gilman, than for the child.
The contents of Rosa Lynmore's purse had been reserved by Mr Maurice for
this sad occasion, he having supplied all previous wants; and it had
been sufficient to give a decent burial to the little boy, who slept
quietly at his father's side--to be awakened only when you and I, my
dear reader, shall be aroused from the same slumber.
Mr Maurice was right when he said if Mrs Gilman was stricken, it would
be in mercy; for her heart being weaned from the world, at last found a
refuge from its loneliness in the consolations of religion, and left the
broken reed of earthly love, on which it had leaned too confidently, for
the Rock, Christ Jesus, the friend that never fails.
She entered Mr Maurice's family as a domestic, and has grown gray in its
service.
Harry Maurice, it was for a long time thought, would become a preacher
of the Gospel; but when he became old enough to judge, he decided in
favour of his father's profession, declaring that he who fails to do
good in one situation in life, would most decidedly fail in another.
Sweet little Effie! Her struggle with her heart on the occasion of the
book was not the last; it was difficult for her to learn its
deceitfulness, and she required repeated lessons.
As she grew older, however, she was always complaining of her own
sinfulness, while every one else thought her the meekest, the gentlest,
and most self-sacrificing being that ever lived. She had, indeed, become
remarkably sharp-sighted to her own faults, and, in proportion,
forgiving to those of others.
But at last a trial came. She was called on to leave all she loved on
earth, and carry the Gospel to a far off benighted land.
She wept at parting with her parents, but even then she whispered in her
mother's ear thanks for the early lessons she had received, and added,
'But for these I might never have learned true self-denial, and might
have preferred my dear home to the service of my Master.'
Effie loved her home sincerely, but she loved her Saviour who gave it to
her better, and she will have her reward.
And now, my little readers, I have not told you this story simply to
amuse you, although I should like to see you interested in its perusal,
but I had a better object.
It is not enough that you should see your own faults, and try to mend
them yourself; neither is it enough that you should pray, 'lead us not
into temptation;' but you must '_watch and pray_' also, always
remembering that however pleasant and beautiful this world is, there is
a brighter and a better, where little children and old men may equally
sit down together in happiness, having one God and one Father.