“He has gone up to the golden country, to bloom forever amid the royal lilies of Paradise,” murmured a voice close to his ear.
The missionary, a little startled, turned abruptly. A middle-aged woman, holding a palm-leaf fan to her mouth, was the only person near him.
“He worshipped the true God,” she continued, suffering the individuality of her voice to glide away and mingle the wail of the mourners, and occasionally slurring a word which she dared not pronounce with distinctness; “he worshipped the true God, and trusted in the Lord our Redeemer—the Lord Jesus Christ, he trusted in Him. He called and he was answered, he was weary, weary and in pain; and the Lord who loved him, He took him home to be a little golden lamb in His bosom forever.”
“How long, since, did he go?”
“About an hour, Tsayah.” Then joining in the wail again, “An hour amid the royal lilies; and his mother—his own beautiful mother—she of the starry eyes and silken hand——”
“Was he conscious?”
“Conscious and full of joy.”
“What did he talk of?”
“Only of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose face he seemed to see!”
“And his father?”