Yes; it was all done—all that lay in human power was done; and hundreds of people to whom Rupert Ames had opened up new light, and in the providence of God, had given them a tangible hope of the future, gathered around his body and mingled their tears with those of his children's.
Another immortal soul's earthly mission was ended. Life's school had closed for him. Into another sphere he had gone. The Great Schoolmaster had promoted him.
And Mrs. Signe Ames, after it all, simply said:
"God knows best. He has but gone before. He was my husband for time, he is my husband for eternity. His mission is there, mine is here. In the morrow, we shall meet again."
XI.
"Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."—Mark 16:15.
Hr. Henrik Bogstad leaned back in his chair before the fire in great relief. He had just shown out a young man who was distributing religious tracts dealing with some "new-fangled religion" lately imported from America, that land of all new-fangled things. All the day, Hr. Bogstad had been adjusting some difficulties among his tenants, and that evening he was somewhat ill-humored. His treatment of the missionary, was, therefore, harsher than he was wont to treat either strangers or friends.
His conscience smote him a little as he thought of what the young American had said. He could find no fault with the religious doctrines advanced, but why should he be bothered with religion anyway? He had cares enough; for a great responsibility had come to him since he had been put in charge of the estate left by his father's death. Just now was the season of gaiety in Christiania, and here he was missing a good many things by his enforced visit to his country home.
After musing for some time, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the snow covered everything—the fields, the roads, the frozen lake and river. The houses were half hidden, and the pines on the hill bore up great banks of snow. From the window the view was beautiful in its solemn whiteness. From the white level of the distant frozen lake, broken patches of brown protruded. These were the islands on one of which Signe Dahl had lived. Henrik wondered what had become of her, and where in the big America she had taken up her abode. He had heard that she was well and happy, but further than that he had not set himself to learn. Long ago he had put behind him philosophically his affair with Signe. He had ceased to think of her as anything more than a sweet, yet strange girl who could resist such an offer as he had extended to her.