"And so it might 'a' been enough, but now, my God! my God! as I stand here aside o' him, he bids me, plain as day, to speak a word beyent; ef I could only name it, ef I could only name it, what looks so cl'ar and beautiful thar' on his face.
"'Hold strong;' he says, 'below thar'. Keep heart and make cl'ar reckonin', for it's losin' all may be, in this 'ere mystery, makes cl'arest gain o' all. There's fairer day to rest ye arter storm. All's well! all's well!' he says; 'all's well beyent. All's well along this shore!'"
Here George Olver's husky voice failed him; sobs rose in the room.
Then the "farewell" was sung, and bravely; but at the last, I heard only Madeline's voice, it grew so surpassingly clear and sweet; it seemed to float solitary in the room, and to play triumphantly about the sleeper's lips—the voice, indeed, of a free spirit in its bliss, thrilled only with some plaintive memory of human woe and loss.
Farewell, ye dreams of night;
Jesus is mine!
Lost in this dawning bright;
Jesus is mine!
All that my soul has tried,
Left but a dismal void;
Jesus has satisfied.
Jesus is mine!
Farewell, mortality!
Jesus is mine!
Welcome, eternity!
Jesus is mine!
Welcome, the loved and blest!
Welcome, bright scenes of rest!
Welcome, my Saviour's breast!
Jesus is mine!
Scarcely had the leaves of the fallen peach-tree by the window begun to wither when the strong bearers passed out with their beautiful, stainless burden, while slowly, reverently, the little community of mourners followed to the grave.