“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly. “I have been poor fellow, but that’s all past and gone now. I’m right in the door, going into glory! Oh! Mas’r George! Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory to His name!”
At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other worlds.
He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations, and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror.
“Who—who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness, and, with a smile, he fell asleep.
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He needs none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up, immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in His glory.
Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, but in self-denying, suffering love! And blessed are the men whom
He calls to fellowship with Him, bearing their cross after Him with patience. Of such it is written: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
—Harriet Beecher Stowe.
“To-morrow’ll be the happiest day of all the glad New Year,