"The simplicity and yet reticence of the heart-stricken mother's letter touched me greatly. You can imagine I did not hesitate an instant, but wired to say I would be at Fellbridge the same afternoon.
"That visit was the saddest hour I ever remember, outside the personal troubles I have had in life. The extreme quietude of everything in that little home, from the sternly-sad, self-contained father downwards, affected me far more than any noisy demonstrations of grief would have done. As to the wan, gentle creature who met me at the door, I could only think of Shakespeare's line, 'Dry sorrow drinks our blood.' Her agony was far too deep for tears. When I was admitted to the poor young man's room, I saw at once that he had not many days to live. But the light flickered up in those wonderful eyes of his, as he held out his hand and thanked me for coming. His first question was for you. Where were you? Had I heard from you lately? I could tell him nothing, except that I believed you to be still in California. Then he asked me to transmit a message to you whenever I could do so. 'Tell her,' he said,'that the happiest hours of my life I owe to her. Little mother will not mind my saying that. She knows that the first and only love of my manhood was for that noble Englishwoman. If she had returned my love I should have struggled—fought for life. Perhaps I should have won. As it is, I am glad to go. If it were not for little mother I should not have a regret. But her love is so unselfish. She has seen my suffering. She has borne my irritability. She knows I shall be happier at rest.'
"I sat with him for some time, his mother beside me, Mr. Barham standing at the foot of the bed. I thought it must wound him that Saul never once alluded to his father—appeared to think that he would never feel his son's death. Was this the result of a principle of life-long suppression on the minister's part? Could it be that I, the stranger, surmised better the intensity of the elder man's feelings than did his dying boy? I know not; I can only say what struck me.
"After a while I saw that he was exhausted. Talking made him cough, and there was a thin red streak on the handkerchief he held to his mouth. 'Would you object to joining us in prayer by my son's side?' Mr. Barham then said, in a perfectly unemotional voice. It was the first time he had broken silence since entering the room. I instantly knelt down, and, taking Saul's hand in mine, bowed my head, while the minister with great solemnity repeated that fine prayer from 'The Visitation of the Sick,' beginning 'Oh, Father of mercies, and God of all comfort.'
"When he had finished, there was silence for a minute or two. I looked up and saw the poor mother's tearless eyes fixed upon her son's. I stooped, as I rose from my knees, and kissed him on the forehead. 'Good-by,' I whispered. 'Good-by, for a little while. I shall bear your love to her, and tell her you are gone to await her coming in that glad place where we all hope to meet.' His beautiful eyes alone answered me; his lips moved, but I could not hear what they murmured. And so, afraid of breaking down, I turned and hurried from the room.
"On receiving your letter, I wrote at once to Mrs. Barham. The answer came in a telegram to-day, which I recognize as the minister's wording,
"'Saul departed this life at daybreak.'
"So the aching heart and troubled spirit are at rest; and until death summons the poor father and mother to rejoin their beloved son, they must wander wearily on, bereft of the pride and joy of their life!
"I will not ask your forgiveness for writing at such length. Though knowing the young man comparatively little, my heart has been deeply stirred. Yours, with much greater reason, cannot fail to be so.
"I am, dear Miss Ballinger,