not He see’ the sorrow or the suffering of His servant? and can not that Arm guard him from evil during the rest of his life which has led him hitherto? He has not left him helpless, for He has given him daughters who, I am sure, will all make it their privilege to minister to his wants. There is the same home to shelter him, the same daily comforts to which he has been used, the same church, and the same loved services to cheer him. And best of all, beyond all,” added Mr. Paine, looking upward, “the same hope of everlasting life in the brightness of light, when our poor, feeble bodies shall be changed into the likeness of the glorious body of our Adorable Redeemer, and when all sorrow, sighing, and darkness shall forever flee away.”
Hilary could not answer, and he was silent, too, for a few minutes. Such thoughts as these make earthly trials and earthly pleasures seem small and poor indeed; and the young man just entering on life’s serious duties and engagements felt he could readily have changed his own bright prospects for the fate of the elder Christian, whose active warfare must be nearly accomplished, and who must now retire from harassing duties to that quiet contemplation so suited to the last stages of our pilgrimage here.
Recollecting himself and his companion, who was sitting before him with downcast eyes, and composed though pale features, he added, in a more cheerful voice,
“And indeed, my dear Miss Duncan, if you have had any experience among blind people, you must know that there is far less trouble to the sufferer than to those who care for and watch over him. There are many alleviations mercifully sent in all trials; and I have often remarked that those deprived of sight are cheerful, and even joyous, under their affliction. To you, and to your sisters, the anxiety and responsibility may be great, but I feel convinced that, in such a cause, no labor will be a trouble.”
“Trouble!” repeated Hilary, clasping her hands; “Mr. Paine, I can only consider it, as far as I am concerned, a privilege, a blessing, to be allowed to minister to such a father as mine. It is a thing to be thankful for for life.”
“Fear not, then, you will not be deserted, or left without
strength to fulfill your labor of love; services so rendered are indeed a blessing; and happy as I believe your father to be in having a daughter from whom he may receive attentions, I hold that daughter happier still who, from the truest, highest, holiest motives, can give her undivided affection to such an object. Miss Duncan, if you can view your position in the true light, you are not an object of pity; the line of your duty is so plainly marked out, you can have no hesitation in following it. Give yourself to it unreservedly, and your strength will not fail; or, if your cares should become too heavy, and your burden more than you can bear alone, then only believe, and help will be sent you in your need. Look above for aid, and you will find it come to you by earthly means, as you require it. Look below, fasten your hopes on temporal things, and they will wither in your grasp!”
“True, most true; at this moment I feel it true; just now, when, weak and fainting, you have been sent to strengthen me, Mr. Paine; thank you for your words. No, I am not to be pitied, indeed; for I can put my trust above, and even below I have blessings innumerable. You are right; my duty is plain, and with God’s help I will not depart from it.”
“I hope we shall always continue to be friends, Miss Duncan,” added the clergyman; “looking forward as I do to a residence among you, I feel happy in the prospect of having such neighbors; and I trust to bring one among you, who, I am sure, will be desirous to be numbered also among your friends; one whose society will, I hope, be not disagreeable to you. I will not venture to say more, for perhaps you may not consider my evidence conclusive, but I hope we shall be friends.
“I am sure I shall be most happy to have a friend,” replied Hilary, simply. “I have never had one of near my own age, and I shall look forward to the prospect of the acquaintance with very great pleasure. Now shall we go back to my father? perhaps he will want me; and,” added she, with something between a sigh and a smile, “do not betray how weak I have been, and then my dear father need not know it.”