“There are no more like him, and, if we lose him, there is nothing left in life, and all hope is at an end, and finis shall be printed on the first page of the book of our existence; and ruin, like a pitiless pall, shall cover what might have been a happy, possibly a grand and good, human career. We did not intend to love him,—no, no; we tried hard to hate him who stood between us and affluence and indolent ease, but he conquered us by his matchless magnanimity, and shamed our ignoble aims and base selfishness, and put us under his royal feet; and now we would rather be trampled by Ulpian, our king, than crowned by any other man. Let us plead with Christ to spare the only pilot who can save us from eternal shipwreck.”
Lying there so helpless yet defiant in her desolation, some subtle thread of association, guided, perhaps, by the invisible fingers of her guardian angel, led her mind to a favorite couplet often quoted by Dr. Grey,—
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“I heard faith’s low, sweet singing, in the night, And, groping through the darkness, touched God’s hand.” |
If the painted lips in the aureola on the wall had parted and audibly uttered these words, they would scarcely have impressed her more powerfully as a message from the absent; and, rising instantly, the orphan prayed in chastened, humbled tones for strength to be patient, for ability to trust God’s wisdom and mercy.
How often, when binding our idolized Isaacs upon the altar, and, meekly submissive to what appears God’s inexorable mandates, we unmurmuringly offer our heart’s dearest treasure, the sacrificial knife is stayed, and our loathed and horrible Moriahs, that erst smelt of blood and echoed woe, become hallowed Jehovah-jirehs, all aglow, not with devouring flames, but the blessed radiance of God’s benignant smile, and musical with thanksgiving strains. But Abraham’s burden preceded Abraham’s boon, and the souls who cannot patiently endure the first are utterly unworthy of the rapture of the last.
As the girl’s mind grew calmer under the breath of prayer—which 120 stills the billows of human passion and strife as the command of Jesus smoothed the thundering surf of Genesareth,—she recollected that she had absented herself from the sick-room for an unusually long time. How long, she could not conjecture, for the face of the clock was invisible, and she had ceased to count the cuckoo-notes; but her limbs ached, and a fillet of fire seemed to circle her brow.
With a lingering gaze upon the radiant portrait, she quitted the parlor, and went wearily back to renew her vigil.
Hester Dennison was cowering over the hearth, spreading her bony hands towards the crackling flames, and, walking up to the mantelpiece, Salome touched the nurse, and whispered,—
“Hester, what did the doctor say? Is there any change?”