And in deep sorrow loved him best.
Yes, tempter, I am still his wife!
I hold the glory of his name!
To purchase liberty or life
I would not dim its light with shame!
If those who think that happiness exists only in those external circumstances that surround a man, could have seen old Mr. Warren in his prison, they would have been astonished at the placidity of his countenance, at the calm and holy atmosphere that had made his cell emphatically a home. His wife and grandchild haunted it with their love, and it seemed to him—so the old man said—that God had never been quite so near to him as since he entered these gloomy walls. He might die; the laws might sacrifice him, innocent as he was; but should this happen, he only knew that God permitted it for some wise purpose, which might never be explained till the sacrifice was made.
True, life was sweet to the old man; for in his poverty and his trouble two souls had clung to him with a degree of love that would have made existence precious to any one. All that earth knows of heaven, strong, pure affection had always followed him. It is only when the soul looks back upon a waste of buried affection, a maze of broken ties, that it thirsts to die. Resignation is known to every good Christian, but the wild desire which makes men plunge madly toward eternity, comes of exhausted affections and an insane use of life. Good and wise men are seldom eager for death. They wait for it with still, solemn faith in God, whose most august messenger it is.
There was nothing of bravado in the old man's heart; he made no theatrical exhibition of the solemn faith that was in him; but when visitors passed the open door of his cell—for, being upon the third corridor, there was little chance of escape—and saw him sitting there with that meek old woman at his feet, and an open Bible on his lap, a huge, worn book that had been his father's, they paused involuntarily, with that intuitive homage which goodness always wins, even from prejudice.
A few comforts had been added to his prison furniture; for Mrs. Gray was always bringing some cherished thing from her household stores. A breadth of carpet lay before the bed; a swing shelf hung against the wall, upon which two cups and saucers of Mrs. Gray's most antique and precious china, stood in rich relief; while a pot of roses struggled into bloom beneath the light which came through the narrow loop-hole cut through the deep outer wall.
Altogether that prison-cell had a home-like and pleasant look. The old man believed that it might prove the gate to death, but he was not one to turn gloomily from the humble flowers with which God scattered his way to the grave. He lifted his eyes gratefully to every sunbeam that came through the wall; and when darkness surrounded him, and that blessed old woman was forced to leave him alone, he would sit down upon his bed, and murmur to himself, "Oh! it is well God can hear in the dark!"