Her head was bent—she did not answer.
“Nay, nay,” said the minister, his lip quivering as he tried to smile, “I can not have thee make thy sacrifice grudgingly, Edith, or with weeping. The Lord’s soldier must depart hopefully, with joy and trust in the magnificent name of his king. Thou knowest that men march to temporal battles with the gay sounds of music, and if mirth would ill become us, Edith, hope is fittest of all moods for a servant of the Lord. Let us go down to speak to this good dame of thine, and then, Edith—then we must part.”
She lifted her head—she had not been weeping—there were traces in her face of an emotion too great for tears.
“Father,” she said, “we are but two of us in the world alone—no kindred—no brethren—if we have friends they are strangers; we have none of our own blood. We are two—only two—in this great world alone.”
Her father raised his hand in appeal—he feared her entreaties. This trial was the greatest of all—his Lord’s cause and his sole child—how painful was the choice that lay between them.
“Only two,” said Edith, with nervous haste. “If thou were taken away, father, ah! then I should rebel against the Lord; my heart would not submit, if my words did. Father, what wouldst thou say in heaven, if thy sole child were shut out for this blasphemy? for I would be alone, alone! Thou hast not thought what a terrible word that is.”
“Edith! Edith!”
“Listen to me, father. If the Lord called us both home, who would weep for us? who would be tempted to this rebellion because we had fallen asleep? Father, if thou wentest up alone, would not my mother ask thee for her child? Ah! the Lord knoweth, surely the Lord knoweth best; but alone, father, alone, a stranger and an exile, when ye are all in heaven—is this meet?”
“Spare me, Edith,” said the minister; “I am vowed to render up all for His cause—all. My people, whom the Lord gave me to watch for their souls night and day, can I let them die, with no man caring for them, no man pointing them to heaven? Remember, Edith! thou hast prayed for them; they are those who shall be my joy and crown if they be brought to righteousness. It is thy grief blindeth thee; think of this.”
“I think of it, father. Yea, I see them, stricken down, and no man caring for their souls; stricken down, and no hand to tend them in their sickness. Ah! father, so desolate it must be, that forsaken sick-bed; so forlorn, so miserable, with only pain living there, and the dark death drawing near in the silence, stealing among the shadows. Father, I have a petition to you; let me go to this labor also? I am here only to pine and brood, and forget our Lord, who will not be served in slothfulness, and yonder they are dying who have need of me—even of me. Father, I will go also; you will not deny me?”