Chapter Twenty.
Sing Glory.
“I ’ave seen the Queen,” said Flo that night to Miss Mary. “I shall get well now.”
She was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes.
“Do you want to get well very much, Flo?” asked the lady.
“Yes—fur some things.”
“What things?”
“I wants fur to help Dick wen ’ee gets hout of that prison school, and I wants fur to tidy up fur Mrs Jenks the day ’er lad comes ’ome, and I wants to do something fur you, Miss Mary.”
“To be my little servant?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what I said to you when first I asked you to be my servant?”
“I must be God’s servant.”
“Just so, dear child, and I believe fully you have tried to be His servant—He knows that, and He has sent you a message; but before I give it to you, I want to ask you a question—why do you suppose that having seen the Queen will make you well?”
“Oh! not seein’ ’er—but she looked real kind-’earted, and though I didn’t ax ’er, I knows she be prayin’ to God fur me.”
“Yes, Flo, it is very likely the Queen did send up a little prayer to God for you. There are many praying for you, my child. You pray for yourself, and I pray for you, and so does Mrs Jenks, and better than all, the Lord Christ is ever interceding for you.”
“Then I’ll soon be well,” said Flo.
“Yes, you shall soon be well—but, Flo, there are two ways of getting well.”
“Two, Miss Mary?”
“Yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by—to suffer pain again, and sickness again—that is the earthly way.”
Flo was silent.
“But,” continued the lady, “there is a better way. There is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever—that is the heavenly way.”
“Yes,” whispered Flo.
“Which should you like best?”
“To be well for ever-’n-ever.”
“Flo, shall I give you God’s message?”
“Please.”
“He says that His little servant shall get quite well—quite well in the best way—you are to go up to serve Him in heaven. God is coming to fetch you, Flo.”
“To live up in the gold streets wid Himself?” asked Flo in a bright, excited manner.
“Yes, He is coming to fetch you—perhaps He may come for you to-night.”
“I shall see God to-night,” said Flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still.
So white and motionless was the little face that Miss Graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. Her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. She was trying to realise this wonderful news.
She should see God to-night.
It was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her—she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before—she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death—this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop!
A sudden and great joy stole over her—she was going to God—He was coming Himself to fetch her—she should lie in His arms and look in His face, and be always with Him.
“Are you glad, Flo?” asked Miss Mary, who saw her smile.
“Yes.”
“I have another message for you. When Dick comes out of the prison school, I am to take care of him—God wishes that.”
“You will tell him about God.”
“Certainly, I shall do that—and, Flo, I feel it will be all right about the widow’s son.”
“Yes, God’ll make it right,”—then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, “I’d like to ’ear the Glory Song.”
“What is that, darling?”
“Oh! you knows—‘I’m glad—I hever—’”
”‘Saw the day’?” finished Miss Mary.
“Yes, that’s it. Poor Janey didn’t know wot it meant—’tis ’bout God.”
“Shall I sing it for you?”
“Yes—please.”
Miss Mary did so; but when she came to the words, “I’ll sing while mounting through the air To Glory, Glory, Glory,” Flo stopped her.
“That’s wot I’ll do—sing—wile mountin’—’tis hall glory.”
And then again she lay still with closed eyes.
During that night Mrs Jenks and Miss Mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away.
Surely there was no pain in her death—neither pain nor sorrow. A quiet passing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the Blood of the Lamb, on a Rock that could never be moved.
Just before she died she murmured something about the Queen.
“Tell ’er—ef she ’ears o’ me—not to fret—I’m well—the best way—and ’tis hall glory.”
So it was.