“Yes.” Violet remembered the words, and added:
“But a fair maiden in our Father’s mansion.”
“I don’t like to think that may be the way.”
“But that ain’t in the Bible,” said Miss Bethia.
“No,” said David. “And I like best the idea of there being little children there. Of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. But if they grow up there—afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children.”
“How you talk!” said Aunt Bethia. “I don’t more than half believe that it’s right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don’t say any thing about it, it is a sign it’s something we needn’t worry about, for we don’t need to know it.”
“No, we don’t need to worry about it,” said David. “But one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes.”
There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by her brother’s side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby’s lovely face. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first.
“I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I remember how she looked as well as I remember my mother’s face, and she didn’t die till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were to see her. It would seem queer to see us together—twins so—wouldn’t it?—she a child and me an old woman,” said Miss Bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. “It will be all in her favour—the difference, I mean.”
“‘Whom the gods love die young,’” said David. “But that is a Pagan sentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like Paul, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’ And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister’s, after all.”