A jealous feeling shot across her wearied heart. Was she nothing to him? “Do you not care that I should come to you, William?”
“Yes, I hope you will. But do you think we shall know everybody in Heaven? Or will it be only our own relations?”
“Oh, child! I think there will be no relations, as you call it, up there. We can trust all that to God, however it may be.”
William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently in thought, a dark blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His bed had been moved toward the window, for he liked to sit in it, and look at the landscape. The window was open now, and the butterflies and bees sported in the summer air.
“I wonder how it will be?” pondered he, aloud. “There will be the beautiful city, its gates of pearl, and its shining precious stones, and its streets of gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely flowers; and there will be the harps, and music, and singing. And what else will there be?”
“Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William; but, what we may not anticipate here.”
Another pause. “Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you think, or will He send an angel?”
“Jesus has promised to come for His own redeemed—for those who love Him and wait for Him.”
“Yes, yes, and then I shall be happy forever. It will be so pleasant to be there, never to be tired or ill again.”
“Pleasant? Ay! Oh, William! Would that the time were come!”