"Well, Sally," he exclaimed, as he re-entered his cottage, "I've been to th' owd spot! They have hewn all abaat it, but th' owd tree stands yet God 'll keep that tree while I live, and then they may do what they like wi' it."
So Abe went on, quietly severing himself from one tie after another which bound him to this world, and getting ready for his departure to another and a better. His mind was now steadfastly turned towards the future, and he was continually looking for his promised rest. The nearer he got, to the end of his life, the clearer his prospects of heaven became; he enjoyed a most unclouded hope of glory. Often he would say, when talking with his friends, "You'll be hearing some mornin' before lang that Abe is gone, and yo' needn't ask where. Tak' my word for it, I'll be in glory. If you should hear I'm dead, you may set it daan that I'm in heaven."
A brother local preacher had lain ill for some time, expecting every day to be his last. Abe thought he would like to see him once more before he passed away, and accordingly he went, and the two old veterans spent a happy time together, conversing about the joys which were before them. "We're both aat of harness naa, thaa sees," said Abe, "and we'll sooin be at haam. I want the' to tell them I'm coming, and shall n't be long after the'."
Everyone thought that Abe would live the longer of the two, but he gained his prize first, passing away a little before his brother, and now they both "rest from their labours, and their works do follow them."
Abe's remaining strength rapidly failed him at the last, so that he was unable to leave his room; yet he was always happy in prospect of the immortal life before him. "No aching bones or tottering limbs there," he would say; "Glory to God! I shall sooin be young agean." The Bible and hymn-book were his constant companions now, and in peaceful expectation he waited for the signal that would open to him the portals of the skies.
The annual lovefeast was held during the time when he was a prisoner in his room, and it was a privation to him not to be able to get there once more, but it was not to be. They would hear his voice no more in Salem, but before long he would have to relate his enrapturing story among listening angels and saints before the throne. Several of the friends came down from the chapel to see him. He said, "Aye, lads, I could loike to ha' been amang yo' once maar, but th' next toime I cross Salem doorstep I shall be carried over; but ne'er moind, I have seen a door opened in heaven, and I shall sooin go through—hallelujah!"
At last he took to his bed never to rise again; the time of his departure was at hand. As, however, his body lost strength, his spirit seemed to gain it; the words of the psalmist were ever on his lips, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me."
"Listen," he said one day, "when I can't spaike to tell yo' haa I feel, I'll lift my hand, and yo'll knaw all's weal." This was for their sakes. He wanted to leave a token with his dear wife and children that should antidote their sorrow when he was gone.
A friend came one day from a distant town to see him; he felt very sad at finding him so near his end, and could not refrain from tears, but when the old man saw him weep, he began to repeat as well as his feeble voice would allow—
"Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell
How high your great Deliverer reigns;
See how He spoiled the hosts of hell,
And led the monster Death in chains."