“Early in the fall he had a letter from John Martin, who had been a neighbour when he lived at the old place. He wanted Ezra to come home and visit him. He had heard of his troubles and his poor health, and he said how good it would be for him to come home, and see his old friends and relations again. Of course I was included in the invitation, and Dan; and, after a little, Ezra said, if I wanted to go he would go too. But I did not think that would be the best thing to do. We had pretty good help as long as there was any one to do the planning; and I made Ezra see that, though he might be spared for a while, it would be better for me to stay at home while he was away; and he made up his mind to take Dan and go, for a month or two at least.
“As for me, I felt as if the rest and quiet I should have at home all alone would do me more good than anything else. But afterwards I was sorry enough that I had not gone with them, though it might not have made any difference in the end.
“Well, they went, and had a good time, and started for home—and you know the rest. They got safely enough to within fifty miles of home, and then an accident happened to the cars. Many were hurt, and among them was Dan; and I only just got where he was in time to see him alive; and we brought him home in his coffin, and laid him down with the rest. And again did it seem even to me as if the Lord was hard on Ezra, taking his last child in that terrible way.
“Well, I never could tell you just how we got through the next year. Angry and rebellious! That tells all that could be told of Ezra Stone for that year. He stuck closer than ever, if that could be, to his farm work; and, though he could not do so much with his own hands, his eye was never off the work that was going on, and the crops were as good as ever. He boasted a little about his crops, and the prices he got; but he did not take the comfort of his success as he had done in former years. He did not say it to me, but I am sure he said to himself many a time—‘What does it all amount to?’ It did not seem to make much difference—the adding of a thousand, or maybe two, to the dollars he had already, since there were none to come after him.
“Well, his health failed again that winter, and he was in the house a good deal of his time. I made it my whole business to see to him, and to make the time pass as easily as might be. I read the papers to him—he had always liked that—and after a while I read other things; and once a day, and sometimes twice, I read the Bible to him. I had promised Jim I would do that whenever I could, and I guess he had promised Jim to let me; and sometimes he took pleasure in it; and I have thought since, if I had been different—if I could have showed him the longing I had to do him good, if I could have spoken to him oftener of the Saviour and His love, that which I had longed for and prayed for all these years since Jim died might have come sooner. It came at last.
“‘Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven!’ The Lord Himself said that. And it was just that which happened to my husband. The man who for so many years had seemed to me to have the hardest heart and the narrowest mind that mortal could have, was just made over anew. He became a little child. There is no other way of putting it. He was gentle and teachable—yes, and lovable; and that last year with him seemed to more than make up to us both for all the suffering of our married life. Yes, I did come to love my husband; and, what seemed stranger to me, he came to love me those last years, and if I had been different he might have loved me from the first. My mistake was—but there, I do not need to tell you that, seeing I have told you so much—more than I have ever told even Eunice, I declare. And you needn’t be too sorry for me.”
There had been tears in Fidelia’s eyes many times while the story went on, and there were tears still as she stooped to kiss her.
“I am more glad for you than sorry. It all ended well, Aunt Ruby.”
“Yes; as well as well could be for them, and well for me too. I don’t feel as if I ever could be faithless or afraid again—but there’s no telling. And now, dear, had you not better sing something again? It seems as though they must have missed us before now; and some of them will likely be looking for us.”
So Fidelia kissed her old friend again; and, going a short distance up the steep side of the mountain, she placed herself on a high rock near the ascending path, and sung with a voice both strong and clear:—