was all that was written there. But every character was aflame with fondness, and every word was a vision, bright with tender beauty, fragrant of the unselfish courage that had filled their lowly lives with a gladness denied to many a richer home. The very waywardness of the writing, the lines aslant and broken, enhanced the dauntless love that penned them; and Harvey's lips were touched to the mute symbols with reverent passion.
Still swimming, his eyes fell again upon the page, and he noticed—what he had not seen before—that something had been written at the lower corner. Isaiah 66:13, it said; and a moment later he had found the text. The full heart overflowed as he read: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you." With a stifled sob, and still repeating the wonderful words, he sank on his knees beside the bed. And as he did so there arose before him the vision of other days, long departed now, when he had thus knelt for his evening prayer; a tranquil face looked down again upon the childish form, and he could almost feel the chill of little feet seeking cover while he prayed; the warm hands held his own, reverently folded together, and amid the stillness that wrapped his heart there floated out, with a silvery sound like that of an evening bell, the tones of the dear voice that had been so quick to prompt his childish memory or to recall his wandering thoughts. The hurried ending, the impulsive uprising, the swift relapse into boyish merriment, the plunge into the waiting crib, the good-night kiss, the sudden descent of darkness, the salvo of farewells the cozy cuddling into the arms of slumber—all these came back to him with a preciousness he had never felt before.
His loneliness, prompted by every reminiscence, slowly turned to prayer. He tried to thank God for all the treasure his soul possessed in the dear ones at home, and to ask for strength to be worthy of love and sacrifice so great. He promised to be true; a swift memory of his mother's fear lest dormant appetite should prove his foe mingled with his prayer a moment, and was gone. For the whole burden of his pleading seemed to revolve again and again about the love-laden text that had taken such a hold upon his heart, till at last he only repeated it over and over before God: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you." Suddenly he paused; for he felt, though he knew not why, that his mother too was kneeling by the Mercy Seat—distant far, sundered by weary miles, yet he could not dispel the assurance, which warmed and caressed his very life, that another kept her sacred midnight vigil. And as he thought of Jessie's slumbering face, and of the other's, upturned in pleading for her son, a deeper peace than he had known before crept about him, the loneliness vanished like a mist, and but a few minutes passed before he slept the sweet sleep of all homeless lads who trust the keeping of their mother's God.
XIX
A BRUSH WITH DEATH
It was quite in vain that Harvey tried to read. For two much-loved faces, one worn and grave, the other bright and hopeful, kept coming and going between him and his book. Another, too, whose setting was a wealth of golden hair.
"You seem in a hurry to get on—guess you're going home," broke in a voice from the seat immediately opposite his own in the crowded car.
Harvey smiled and laid his book aside. "I'm in a hurry all right," he answered, "though I don't know that looking at one's watch every few minutes helps matters much. But I don't relish the idea of being late."
"Student, aren't you?" asked the man, nodding towards a pin in evidence on Harvey's coat.
"Yes—I'm just going home for a little visit."