Christmas-day came round again, and it was a mournful one in the home of the widow and fatherless. Margaret had changed much during the year: her face was deathly pale, silver lines showed themselves among her dark hair, and her usually placid and subdued expression was exchanged for a look of pain. A harassing cough troubled her by day and prevented her resting at night; an accompanying weakness created some little anxiety as to what its issue might be; but, with the hoping spirit which is ever attendant on that insidious disease called consumption, she believed that the coming spring would restore her.
It came with its wealth of sunshine, and renovated the earth to promise of fruitfulness and beauty,—beautiful type of the resurrection, when man shall rise to glorious immortality. All nature rejoiced in its presence; the flowers came forth and filled the air with healthful odours; the birds warbled as they built their nests; the merry children rejoiced as they played on the green, and exulted in the liberty the vernal season bestowed. But to the widow spring brought no renewal of health; and now, finding herself unable to wash, she consulted a physician, who told her it was too late; the disease had made large progress, and she could not live through the year!
Such an announcement would startle most persons. Death is so repugnant to man's nature, that there are but few who do not shrink from the dread encounter. Poor Margaret had more to fear than this. She dreaded not only the misery and poverty her tedious illness would entail upon them, but she wept the bitterest tears when she thought of her orphan child, poor, alone, and uncared for, when she should be taken away. She was, however, too sincere a believer to remain long within the shadow of the cloud. The God in whom she had ever trusted was ever faithful to his own word. Had he not promised, "Leave thy fatherless children to me, I will preserve them alive?" and is not his favour better than life! And when she prayed, "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me," like Him whose true servant she was, she also added, "nevertheless, not my will be done, but thine." When does the Christian fail to receive comfort, when the child-like submission inculcated in the gospel is exercised? Is not the chastening rod in the hand of a Father who wounds but to heal? and he, who sees the end from the beginning, nevertheless afflicts his children. Margaret Raymond was therefore able to give up all into the unerring hand, knowing that He who feeds the raven and clothes the lily would not forsake her orphan child, but lead him, it might be by a narrow and rugged path—but such is the way that leads to the strait gate, and all who find eternal life must tread it.
CHAPTER III.
AN ORPHAN INDEED.
The spring advanced into summer, and on one of its calm and bright evenings, Margaret, exerting her little strength, took William to the grave-yard, and both seated themselves on the little green hillock beneath which George Raymond awaited in peace the resurrection from the dust. No costly monuments nor storied urns were in that simple grave-yard. Some plain marble tablets marked the resting-places of the dead; but there were memorials of deeper meaning and more lovely. Trees waved their branches protectingly over the little mounds; kind hands had planted them with flowers and kept them sacred. Thus it was a pleasant spot, and full of hallowed remembrances. Margaret had never spoken of her coming death to her son; but now, seated on the spot of earth which must ere long be opened to afford a resting-place for herself, she told him that soon, in a few weeks most likely, he would be an orphan indeed, alone in the world, and with no friend but God.
How can the sorrow and astonishment of the poor boy be described? Motherless and fatherless! what a deep and painful impression did the words of that truly pious mother make upon him! He had dearly loved his father, but the exertion he had at once made to help to support his mother had prevented his viewing that great loss in all its magnitude; but now, to lose her on whom, since his father's death, he had hung his whole heart, was an idea so terrible that he could scarcely comprehend it.
"Mother," he exclaimed, as he threw his arms around her and sobbed wildly, "you will not die! surely you will not! I cannot live without you; I shall have no home,—nobody to love when you are gone."
Poor Margaret, controlling her own emotion, tried to comfort her weeping child, and at last succeeded; for strength from above was given to her heart, and words to her tongue. She spoke so convincingly of God's wisdom, and goodness, and righteous dealing in all things, that the boy's grief abated, his eye once more lighted up, and peace returned to his heart. The assurance that God, the Father of all, who never forsakes the creature he has made, would be to him more than parents could, came plainly upon his soul, and filled it with trust.