The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly from the room. They knew that love's last Sacrament was being thus dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should drink it new in the kingdom of God. But now Miss Adair, her love impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside Harvey. She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand.
"I thought she'd like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn't before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of expectation on her face as she held Harvey's hood, and his medal, before the new-illumined eyes. The lamp's dim light fell athwart them and they gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.
The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands. But the purpose died before she moved—for the mother's glance showed her that these things were to her now but as the dust. The time was short; the night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the mother's face still turned upon her children's in yearning eagerness, as though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze forever.
Few were the words that were spoken now. The stream of peace flowed silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow with hope. For this pledge of God's faithfulness was hailed by every heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that life's long shadows would at last be lost in love's unclouded day.
Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length. When she awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh.
"I had a lovely—dream," she faltered. "I saw you—both—little children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too. It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light; "I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone. You asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey. "Not yet, dear—not yet—but——" She motioned him to bend down beside her. "Your father's living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on his. Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He's living," the awed voice whispered again—"but he's afraid. He'll come back—some day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him. He'll tell you. And love him; tell him—I'm—waiting there. You must love him—and forgive him—and bring him——" Then she stopped, breathless.
The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could bear. With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother. Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried something wonderful, and far away.
"Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I'll love him—I love him now; I'll love him—like you love him. And I'll bring him, mother, when he comes back; I'll bring him—we'll come together. I'll tell him what you said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he'll come—I know he'll come," his face radiant with the thought.
"And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too."
"Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.