Hiel did not confine himself merely to transmitting the messages of neighbors, but interested himself personally in the work of consolation, going after Nabby wherever she might be found—at the spinning wheel, in the garret, or in the dairy below—and Nabby, in her first real trouble, was so accessible and so confiding that Hiel found voice to say unreproved what the brisk maiden might have flouted at in earlier days.
"I'm sure I don't know what we can do without Mother," Nabby said one day, her long eye-lashes wet with tears. "Home won't ever seem home without her."
"Well," answered Hiel, "I know what I shall want you to do, Nabby: come to me; and you and I'll have a home all to ourselves."
And Nabby did not gainsay the word, but only laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed, and said he was a real true friend and she should never forget his kindness; and Hiel kissed and comforted her with all sorts of promises of future devotion. Truth to say, he found Nabby in tears and sorrow more attractive than when she sparkled in her gayest spirits.
But other influences emanated from that shadowy room—influences felt through all the little neighborhood. Puritan life had its current expressions significant of the intense earnestness of its faith in the invisible, and among these was the phrase "a triumphant death." There seemed to be in the calm and peaceful descent of this quiet spirit to the grave a peculiar and luminous clearness that fulfilled the meaning of that idea. The "peace that passeth understanding" brightened, in the sunset radiance, into "joy unspeakable and full of glory." Her decline, though rapid and steady, was painless: and it seemed to those who looked upon her and heard her words of joy and trust that the glory so visible to her must be real and near—as if in that sick-chamber a door had in very deed been opened into heaven.
When she became aware that the end was approaching she expressed a wish that her own minister should be sent for, and Dr. Cushing came. The family gathered in her room. She was propped up on pillows, her eyes shining and cheeks glowing with the hectic flush, and an indescribable brightness of expression in her face that seemed almost divine.
The Doctor read from Isaiah the exultant words: "Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people, but the Lord shall arise on thee, and his glory shall be seen on thee. The sun shall no more be thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light to thee, but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory. Thy sun shall no more go down nor thy moon withdraw itself, for the Lord shall be thy everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended." In the prayer that followed he offered thanks that God had given unto our sister the victory, and enabled her to rejoice in hope of the glory of God, while yet remaining with them as a witness of the faithfulness of the promise. He prayed that those dear to her might have grace given them to resign her wholly to the will of God and to rejoice with her in her great joy.
When they rose from prayer, Zeph, who had sat in gloomy silence through all, broke out:
"I can't—I can't give her up! It's hard on me. I can't do it, and I won't."
She turned her eyes on him, and a wonderful expression of love and sorrow and compassion came into her face. She took his hand, saying, with a gentle gravity and composure: