"My last chapter must be written to-night, child; after that I shall please you all by taking a long, long rest." How those words rung in Miss Deborah's ears as she stood gazing on that silent figure, sitting so quietly in that awful death-hush! Not the quiver of an eyelid; not a tremble of the lip; only that great, solemn calm. It was all over now. The pain and weariness; the constant striving after the true and beautiful; the daily self-renunciation; the life so completely devoted to the service of others; and the last lingering notes of the grand, sweet song had been sung in silence and alone. "Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life," she had remarked to Aunt Debby not so long ago, "and, thank God, even in the darkest night I have never failed to find a star brightening through the gloom." Now the earthly shadows were done with for ever; the bleeding feet had trod the last steps of the thorny way, and entered by the gate into the holy Jerusalem, where "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him."
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCLUSION.
Six summers has the green grass waved and sweet flowers bloomed over Aunt Judith's grave; six long, long years have come and gone since Miss Deborah entered that silent room and found the death-angel casting his dread shadow there. And what have the seasons brought? Ease to the sorrowing heart and laughter to the weeping eyes. "Time heals all wounds; one cannot mourn for ever," say the wise people, and in nine cases out of ten their words hold good, though I think there are some sorrows which no lapse of time can cure—sorrows which deepen and intensify as the years roll on; only the wound, bleeding inwardly, is hid with a sacred reverence from the gaze of the outside world, and is known to the sore-stricken heart alone.
Be that as it may, however, Miss Latimer's friends could afford to laugh and smile now, and joy as she had done in God's beautiful sunshine. The earth is still as fair, the skies as blue as they were in the bygone days when her quiet voice drew the thoughts of those around her to the nature-world with all its wondrous beauty, and each can say with glad accord,—
"Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,
Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give;
The world is very lovely. Oh, my God,
I thank thee that I live."
Let us take one more look at them ere we close the book and lay it aside reverently and tenderly as we would the folded page in a closing life.
It is a cold, wintry evening. Outside the wind is sweeping up and down the streets, wailing like a soul in pain. The rain is dashing against the windowpanes, and beating with wild, ungovernable fury on those exposed to the disturbing elements. But inside warmth and comfort reign supreme. The oak parlour is all ablaze with light, and the laughter and merriment filling the whole room betoken the happy, genial spirits of the occupants. Let us see if we still recognize one and all—if six years have wrought no ravages or particular change on those we knew in their happy childhood days.
Close by the fire, lying on a luxuriously-cushioned couch, is a young lady, whose pale, thin face bears traces of weary pain. Yet the dark eyes are bright and smiling, and the voice has still its own merry ring, which plainly betrays the old Winnie of bygone days. Surely Aunt Judith's words are coming true, and she is learning beautiful lessons in the school of pain; for the pale face shines with a peaceful calm, and the words which fall from her lips are the words of one who has been in the furnace of affliction and come forth tried as silver.