“Then I don’t believe I can make it plain to you. I did not hear any voice, nor expect to; that does not seem to be his way; at least, not now; but my anxiety left me, and in its place came a quiet sense of assurance. I had not the least desire to pray that prayer any more; instead, I said, ‘Oh, Father, thank you!’ When I heard that the doctor had said you would not live until morning, I said, softly, ‘Yes, she will; the Physician who never loses a case has taken charge of this one.’ I was so sure that I went to Derrick’s room and told him to go to bed and to sleep, that you would be better in the morning. But I can’t explain the experience to you any better than that; and I really don’t expect you to understand it; some things have to be lived, before we can understand them. You must just learn how to pray, dearie, and see for yourself how he answers his children.”
“What would you have thought if I had died that night?” asked skeptical Jean; but her aunt only smiled quietly and asked:
“What would you have thought if the sun hadn’t risen this morning?”
“And you mean that you were just as sure as that? Well, anyhow, I didn’t, it seems.” She was already ashamed of her cavil, but she could think of no better way of saying so.
It was nearly a week afterwards that Jean, with her Aunt Elsie on guard, was supposed to be settled for her afternoon nap. Instead, she fidgeted, and declared herself not one bit sleepy. At last her aunt proposed to read her to sleep.
“No,” she said, promptly, “I don’t want to be read to; I want to talk; there is a question I want to ask. Do you think people who are really going to die—right away, I mean—ever feel any other way than afraid?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” was the prompt reply. “Why, your grandfather was no more afraid than you would be of going into your father’s room; and I have been with others who felt in the same way; old people and young, even little children who were afraid of the dark. One who loved the Lord would not be afraid to go to him, you know.”
She had determined to make her reply as lengthy as she reasonably could, in order that Jean might not weary herself with much talking. Her hope was, also, that if she kept her voice low and evenly modulated her charge would presently grow drowsy, but Jean spoke in her most wide-awake tone:
“Well, I was afraid; I was awfully afraid! I don’t mean that day when I was at the worst; I didn’t seem to care then what became of me; I suppose I was too sick to think; but that first night I knew I was going to be very sick; I could feel it all through me; I thought, too, that I should probably die, and I was never so frightened in my life! Mother said I was burning with fever, but it seemed to me that I could feel the drops of perspiration inside of me, made of fear. Aunt Elsie, it was awful! It frightens me now whenever I think of it. Now, this is what I want to say.” She hurried on realizing that her aunt was about to interrupt and urge her not to talk any more. “I’ve got to say it; I never shall get to sleep if I don’t. I know I am getting well now, real fast, but then, of course, I shall have to die, some day, and it might be very soon, you can’t ever tell; and I keep wondering if it really is possible, I mean when one is well and not in any danger, to get hold of something that would keep one from having that awful fear.”
“It certainly is, dearie.” Aunt Elsie’s voice was as calm and her manner as assured as it might have been over an assurance of the next morning’s sunrise. “One who loves the Lord Jesus Christ has no call to be afraid over being sent for to go to live with him in the place he promised to prepare.” Jean interrupted: