When I came down-stairs the following morning, Mrs. Baker told me that some one was anxious to talk with me over the telephone—some one who would not give her name, only her number. Going to the telephone, I soon recognized Miss Blank's voice.
"Good morning, Mrs. Roberts," she begin. "I've been very anxious to get you, but would not have your rest disturbed, as I was sure you must be worn out. I've been talking to L——'s poor mother all night long, and she has agreed to a funeral service which we can attend. Neither she nor her husband will be present; only our kind. We want to know if you will conduct it for us."
"Where, Miss Blank?" I inquired.
"In the undertaker's chapel tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock. They are going to take her remains back to her old home on Monday's steamer. Do say you will, Mrs. Roberts, please."
I consented, provided I should be allowed to give a message to the living. She gladly acquiesced.
With difficulty I made my way through the crowd that blocked the street in front of the undertaker's the following afternoon. None were admitted but L——'s associates. There she lay, apparently sleeping sweetly, but this was only the beautiful, fast-decaying mortal form. The remains were surrounded by fragrant tributes of exquisite floral pieces, and girls dressed in black robes, heavily veiled, and weeping bitterly. With great effort I at last spoke and sang. I do not remember if I had a text; I do know that the message came to the living straight from the throne of grace. Even until recently some one has occasionally reminded me that she was present on that occasion and that it brought about her reformation. The father and mother departed with their precious burden the following morning. They came early on board, in order to avoid curious eyes. I spent the time with the mother in their stateroom until they sailed. When that casket was lowered into the hold of the steamer, I so obstructed the doorway that she could not look past me.
Before our final parting the poor mother gave a farewell message for other mothers. It was this:
"Mrs. Roberts, I was too indulgent, too weak, with my little girl. All she had to do was to tease until she got her own way even though I knew it would prove to be detrimental to her good. If I resisted or advised ever so little, she would overrule every time.
"When she returned from Europe, she sang in our church choir and proved to be a great attraction. She and the tenor singer, —— ——, were betrothed, and with our consent. He was a schoolmate of hers. For some trifling offense on his part, she became angry and unfortunately showed a relentless spirit; consequently, the breach widened.
"Poor darling! She was so impetuous, so impulsive. I have never quite recovered from the shock I received when she suddenly announced her marriage to an utter stranger—an educated young scoundrel, as we soon learned to our sorrow. Papa and I decided to make the best of it now the deed was done; so he took him into his employ in order that our baby girl might be near us. He robbed us in less than six weeks of several hundred dollars; then Papa told daughter that she was welcome to her home as long as she lived, but that he must go; that she would be compelled to choose. I know she did not want to; but, oh! she was so proud, and she would not give in. She chose her husband, and that was the last I saw of her until—Oh! I can not, can not bear it. Mrs. Roberts! It is killing me!"