Of no account

by Ruth Lamb

But Adam could not picture what would be beyond such a beginning. He could only pray and wait, and hope for this much—that his wife and he might become like-minded. He wondered, now and then, how it was with Mrs. Allison; whether, now she was coming towards the end of life, she was trusting in the blood of Jesus for pardon, and looking forward with joy to meeting Him as her Saviour. He wondered how Margaret felt, as she ministered, day by day, to the wants of one who was on the edge of the grave. He knew that she could remember her father's death, but he did not believe it had impressed her in a solemn way, though from all he had heard Mr. Allison's life had not been such as would bear looking back upon with satisfaction.

Had it been otherwise with him when he lost his own mother? No. Adam was forced to own that while he had thought much of providing her with earthly comforts whilst she lived, he had felt no anxiety as to what must follow.

We must know what it is to stand guilty before God, and then, through believing in His name, to receive pardon and remission of sins, before we can understand the danger and the need of others.

Mrs. Livesey's experience during her mother's illness brought no anxiety for Mrs. Allison, or teaching to herself. So far as the sick woman was concerned, she seemed to have no particular fears about the future; indeed, her opinion of herself very much resembled that of Adam when he first began to think over his past life. She derived satisfaction from comparing it with lives of others, and her youngest daughter, willing to cheer her as well as she knew how, said, "Don't you fret, mother. You've no call to worrit. You've been a good-living woman if ever there was one."

Mrs. Allison had become very weak when these words were spoken, and past making any effort after a clearer light and self-knowledge, even had she felt it needful. She kissed her laughing grandchild with quivering lips, and putting one thin arm round Margaret's neck, she did the same by her. Then she said faintly, "I—was—not—always—kind—to—you—but—I've made amends"; then quietly passed away.

What these last words meant was made plain by Mr. Collinge, who, having been informed of Mrs. Allison's death, came to the cottage.

Mrs. Bradford met him dry-eyed. "I must conquer my feelings as far as I can," she said, "for I'm only a poor creature, and if I was to give way as Maggie does, I should be good for nothing—here, or at home."

Margaret's nature was too impulsive to be so easily controlled, and she was weeping in real sorrow at the loss of her mother, yet glad that she had been able to wait upon her during her last days.

It soon became apparent that Mrs. Allison's daughters would only have to see the orders of Mr. Collinge carried out. He informed them that their mother had made a will; that he was the sole executor, as he had been under that of her husband, and that she had given him written instructions as to her funeral.

"There was only her furniture to leave. The money comes to us daughters, share and share alike, unless mother had put anything by;" and Mrs. Bradford looked inquiringly at Margaret. "The things have been well taken care of, but if they were sold they wouldn't more than pay all expenses."