Ada interrupted herself as a sweet golden-haired little boy lifted the latch of the gate of a tiny garden, and timidly, as if abashed by the presence of a stranger, offered a bunch of violets to Flora. She received them as graciously as though they had been a chaplet of pearls, and her words of thanks made the face of the child radiant with joy.
"Quite a chivalrous attention," said Ada, as they moved on.
"Oh, my children love me, and often bring me their little offerings. On my birth-day our myrtle was quite covered with their garlands of early spring flowers."
She now stopped at the door of a cottage and knocked. A feeble "Come in" sounded from the interior, and she entered, followed by Ada, who gathered together the folds of her silk dress, afraid to let them come in contact with the walls of the lowly dwelling. But her own luxurious home could not have presented a picture of more perfect cleanliness and neatness than that humble abode; there was nothing to shock even the refined taste of a lady of fashion.
An aged woman, in a snowy cap, was seated in an arm-chair beside a small fire; while a woman who had been engaged in ironing, paused in her occupation to drop a humble courtesy to Flora.
"How are you feeling to-day?" said Flora, in a tone of gentlest sympathy, approaching the invalid, and laying her soft fingers on the thin wrinkled hand that feebly grasped the arm of the chair.
"All the better for a sight of your sweet face--blessings on it! But I'm going--going fast! I shall soon be in my home. God be praised for His mercies!"
Ada sat down on the wooden three-legged stool which the washerwoman, after wiping it with her apron, placed for her accommodation, and listened silently and wonderingly to the dialogue between the aged woman and her visitor. There was no forced conversation, no difficulty in finding themes for discourse. Their subjects were the highest, the most solemn, the most interesting which can occupy the minds of immortals. Mrs. Arkwright was near the grave, and she knew it. She was calmly standing on the brink of the Jordan awaiting the signal from the Lord whom she had loved, and leaning upon the staff of His promise, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee."
Ada had ever connected the idea of death with terror and gloom. The struggle, the darkness, the parting from everything once prized, the hatchment, the hearse with its black nodding plumes, the cold desolation of the grave,--such were the images brought to her mind by the word; and she had turned from them with repugnance and horror. But here she beheld death in a totally different aspect, as a freedom from sorrow, a commencement of bliss, a reunion with all most beloved, a summons to the presence of an adored Redeemer, a welcome to the home of a Father!
Ada had imagined that those of her own class only entered the cottages of the poor to convey help to the needy, or instruction to the ignorant; but she beheld here that the rich in visiting the poor may receive as well as impart, that she whose mind is cultivated and refined may well sit as a learner beside the lowly saint whose only knowledge is the knowledge of the Saviour. Flora listened more than she spoke. For some time the feeble voice of the dying woman alone broke the stillness of the place, till, at her earnest request that the young lady would let her hear once more--for the last time--her favourite hymn for the departing, in accents which trembled with emotion Flora sang the following verses:--