"Well, Miss Esther, you ain't told me how it's all come about. I can't fer the life of me think, and it all seems so strange. I jest can't git it through my head that father's a-goin' to die. Are you real sure of it? Mebbe there's a mistake."
"No, Mrs. Gray, there is no mistake. In a few hours he will be safe forever in the better land."
Esther's power of narration was well developed. Going into the minute details, she simply told the whole story, while Mrs. Gray attentively listened without an interruption. There were indications that the hitherto impregnable fortress of this untutored woman's heart was beginning to totter. But is there after all in this great world a heart so loveless, so blackened by sin, or so narrowed by its own selfish domain, as to be entirely invincible? Cannot the love emanating from Christ Himself, flowing through the channel of a surrendered life, leave its impress where all else fails?
Esther's observant eye noted the change, then skilfully she began speaking of the Lord as a personal Saviour.
Presently tears began rolling down the hardened cheeks, causing the young messenger to feel that victory was almost certain.
Upon reaching the Fairfax home, Mrs. Gray was ushered into a room, which to her seemed magnificent.
Grandpa was lying upon an immaculate bed, while everything surrounding him was far more indicative of loving thoughtfulness than of luxury. In his hand he clasped a beautiful rose, because during his rational moments he so often spoke of the "pretty roses a-growin' by the brook down in the lane." The rose was presented by none other than Dr. Dale, not—so he assured himself—that he was in the least sympathetic with the Fairfaxes in their eccentric freak. It was simply for the good of the patient that all small whims be humored.
Upon a nearby table was Esther's violin. During the long hours of the preceding night, when the burning fever produced a great restlessness in the weary sufferer, nothing soothed him but the low, sweet strains of music.
Now he was calm, and for the first time since Tom died clothed in his right mind.
"Sary, how be you?" he feebly asked, as she slowly walked up to his side. "I'm so glad you've come, fer it's all straightened out now, and I want to thank you afore I go fer all you've done fer me. And may somebody take care of you real kind when you git old and can't work no more. I've been a big bother, Sary. You've had a good deal to put up with since Tom died, but you've been mighty kind. You've always give me enough to eat, and kep' me warm, and you've had to work awful hard to do it. I thank you, Sary, and may God bless you! But I do want you to find Jesus, the way to the beautiful land. You won't have it so hard there. He's paid for everything, and it's free fer the askin'."