Little Issie had long since snuggled down in her own separate place in my heart; she was indeed a favourite with all who knew her—but I saw as I stepped into the room that God loved her best of all. The white thin hands were tightly held, one in her father's, the other in her mother's, as though they would detain her; but the angels heeded not and went on with the preparations for her flight. These were almost complete when I arrived; Issie alone knew that they were of God's providing, for the face she turned to me was full of childish sweetness, and her smile was touched with other light.
"I'm glad you're home," she whispered, as I bent low beside her. "Please don't go away again"—and as I kissed her she was gone.
Her curls were gold, still gold, though she was gone. As we stood weeping beside the precious dust the sun arose, still arose, though she was gone. And his first errand was to the broken heart. Swift to the window flew his first-flung rays, like eager couriers who hear the cry of need. And entering in, unbidden, they set God's brighter seal of love upon the golden tresses. Up and down among the glowing strands, they wandered, smiling at God's gain, smiling still, though she was gone. Unafraid, they caressed the unconscious locks, anointing them for their burial.
When I went out, the winter seemed past and gone; I knew then what made these snowbound hearts so warm.
"Margaret has a new sorrow," said my wife, soon after my arrival home.
"What is it?"
"A young woman and her child from Ireland—"
"Yes," I interrupted, "I heard about it; the driver told me. Does Margaret seem to fret herself about it?"
"I don't know," answered her mother, "but I am afraid it has made it all the harder for us: I mean that I fear that she is more devoted to him now than ever. She read me a letter Angus wrote her just before he shut himself up with the child."