One more Lamb safe in the Fold.
The sun had risen and set again upon the cottage in the wood and its quiet household. It had been a lovely spring day, such a day as makes the violets and anemones lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot in the forest; but the evening had closed in much colder. Heavy clouds were gliding across the moon, throwing weird shadows upon sea and land, and the wind was rising almost to a tempest.
Within, the scene was different. The fire in the great chimney was blazing merrily, for Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their duty to keep it as large as though it were Christmas-time; and little Dick was continually running in with his apron full of dried sticks and leaves to add to the flame.
Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the dame had converted into a bed, and drawn up close to the hearth. There had been a change that day, that mysterious, indescribable change which all know so well, but which no one can define--the shadow of the dark mountains falling on the pilgrim's face as he enters the valley of death. Not a painful change. The lines of suffering were passing away, the dark blue eyes were beaming with a holy light, the high white forehead looked more like chiseled marble, and about the lips was playing a smile, not gay or mirthful, but full of contentment and peace. The stupor had passed away, and his mind seemed perfectly clear. He recognized those about him, and was very grateful for every little service rendered him; but he spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise or bustle in the room. Perhaps it was because he had been so long accustomed to the stillness of his prison; it may have been that sounds were breaking on his ear with which earth's noises formed jarring discord.
Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little bench, handing him anything he wanted, and holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp. Another who rarely took his eyes from the dying boy was the soldier. He had received from them both freely the pardon which was alone needed to make his heart lighter, notwithstanding the present grief, than it had ever been before in his life. An atmosphere of love filled the little dwelling; pardon and peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing coals on the hearth lightened the rough walls of the cottage.
There was a little stir at the door--a whispered question and answer; then Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:
"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"
He raised himself a little, and as Kate approached, put both his arms around her neck and drew her down close to him.
"I am so glad you have come," he said; "now Geoffrey will not be alone. You will never leave each other any more, will you? You will take her to father, and tell him I loved you both so much! You will all have happy days together in some far-off land, and then when you are so happy, you will sometimes think and talk about to-night."
Here the elder boy's stout heart broke down. To look forward to a future which was not to be shared by Hubert, his second self--the only one with whom he had taken sweet counsel through all his childhood--dearer still for the sufferings they had borne side by side!