A minute later I found myself by my old friend’s bedside. She had a wonderful face, this old village woman. Through it shone the inner light which once to see is never to forget. I sat down by her, at a sign from Betty, and asked her how she did.
For all answer Mrs. Harley smiled.
“I fear you suffer?”
“That does not matter,” came back from her, “for I am going home.”
The room was a plain little room with old oak beams across the ceiling, the covering on the bed was old and worn, there were only the barest necessities of life, and yet as I sat watching my old friend, I could almost hear the sound of angels’ wings.
In spite of pain, long nights of sleeplessness, and a long and weary illness, my old friend’s face glowed with happiness, and in her eyes was that perfect look of peace, which remains as a beacon to every pilgrim who has ever met it. I offered to read to Mrs. Harley, but she declined.
“No readin’, dear, for I can hear Him myself. There’s no need now to speak or pray, I’m goin’ Home. I, what be so tired.” Then she thanked me for coming, and asked me with an ethereal smile about “the little one. Mak’ her grow up worth havin’,” she added seriously. “Every child is made in the image of God, and it isn’t parents as ought to deface His image. ’Tisn’t only book learning, and fine dressing, as will make her a lady, but you’ll do yer best,” and she patted my hand affectionately.
TWO OLD FRIENDS
Then my old friend began to talk of her past life, of her early marriage, “fifty years agone,” with a right God-fearing man; of her happy married life, and then, calmly and bravely, of her joyous and approaching death.
“I am going Home,” were her last words, and I shall never forget the exquisite certainty of her tone, as I left the room and followed Betty downstairs.