Stood the Mother by her Son.”
Deep and touching was the voice, as were the words, and a feeling of awe, pain, and strange longing love filled the heart of the child, and her soul went out in prayer to the Saviour who died for her, to keep her in his ways and make her spirit white.
That same evening, after Miss Lane had gone to stay with poor dying Phœbe Birch, Jennie finished the story to her little brother and sisters; played her papa’s favorite songs, and went to bed infinitely rewarded for her sacrifice in the “peace of mind which passeth understanding.”
The dreaded messenger who walks among us unseen at all hours had called for the lonely child in her comfortless home, and Phœbe’s soul was passing to the land of rest, where many saints had gone before.
The morning before, Phœbe had gone down stairs to make the fire and prepare breakfast. It was a chilly morning, and the child’s garments were very thin, but she was very happy. She had a friend. In all the wide world, a few weeks before, there had been no one to greet her pleasantly, no one to care whether she lived or died, and her poor heart was aching, aching all the time for that love which every child claims as its right.
All day long it was toil, and wearying at fault-finding, sometimes weeping at blows from her drunken father or her cruel stepmother, till there seemed neither rest nor brightness for her on earth.
At last, one Sunday, as she stood wistfully watching the children going into Sunday-school, an impulse to follow them seized her. So, trembling and with flushed cheeks, she glided through the door and sat down on the first vacant seat.
How beautiful it all was! The children were singing; and into the sensitive, wounded spirit of the child crept a strange, soothing peace, as if the great world of pain and sin were shut out from her forever.
Heaven must be like that, she thought, and her eyes rested on a fair face near her with a sort of reverent admiration. It was a face patient and calm, with a touch of sadness in it though the eyes looked ever upward, and the lips smiled. The brow was clear and broad and white, the hair bright and smooth, and children’s faces turned lovingly to meet the gentle glances cast upon them from those unclouded blue eyes.
For one moment, this lady with her grace and exceeding refinement, passing her delicate fingers over the organ keys, seemed as far off from the child as the angels in heaven; but when her soft voice had inquired Phœbe’s name, when those lily hands held her own brown hand, some of Phœbe’s awe vanished, and a warm, grateful love sprang up in its place.