"Poor old gentleman!" continued Mrs. Reardon. "We little thought that night that we were never to see him any more. It was very good of him to come. I wish now that I had been kinder to him. I knew you would be sorry, Matthew," said she, laying her hand gently upon that of her husband. "It seems as if we had found a friend only to lose him again directly."
"It was my own fault that he never came before," replied Matthew. "But somehow, I don't think that we ought to be very sorry for him. You heard what he said about its being so much better to depart and be with Christ—and that's where he is now. He told me long ago of the Lord having gone before to prepare a place, but he did not think of going so soon then. 'To depart and be with Christ'—yes, it's better for him. But how will it be for those who die without Christ? Don't be afraid, wife," added he, "I know what I am saying, and what I have been thinking of—and I wish that I had thought of it before."
"I'm very sorry for him too," observed Mrs. Reardon, soothingly. "But it's no use thinking and grieving about it; we can't do any good, and after all, as you say, the poor gentleman is better off."
"'For ever with the Lord;'"
repeated Matthew. "How his face shone when he said those words. It's in one of your hymns—isn't it, Bessie?"
"Yes, father; but I can't sing, I've lump in my throat."
"Poor child!" said her mother, observing that she looked ready to cry. "I don't think we are any of us in a singing humour to-night."
And then, tired as she was, she took them away to their little closet, and having undressed and tucked them in carefully, bidding them say their prayers in bed for once, she kissed the trembling children, and told them to try and go to sleep as fast as they could,—turning back again to take the shawl from her own shoulders and place it over them.
"I can't think what makes them shiver so to-night," thought she, "unless it is these bitter winds."
She little dreamt that it could be from fear, and the children never told her.