From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse, were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the knowledge of what she wished for.
It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the little lawn, and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields the trees in the gap lit up, as then the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there now; they were scattered. One was away; one a sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; one waiting to be gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night, near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much; and there were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up towards them in their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have been shining! thought Ellen; going on just the same, from night to night, and from year to year as if they never would come to an end. But they will come to an end the time will come when they stop shining, bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun; that will never end! never! And in a few years, we who were so happy a year ago, and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together there this will be all over! And then as she looked, and the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came to her remembrance:
"Ye stars are but the shining dust
Of my divine abode;
The pavements of those heavenly courts
Where I shall see my God.
"The Father of eternal lights
Shall there his beams display;
And not one moment's darkness mix
With that unvaried day.
" 'Not one moment's darkness?' Oh," thought little Ellen, "there are a great many here!" Still gazing up at the bright, calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.
"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away."
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."
While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, there came to her ear, through the perfect stillness of the night, the faint, far-off, not to be mistaken sound of quick-coming horses' feet nearer and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and pleasure, both very acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood pressing her hand to her heart, while the quick-measured beat of hoofs grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes were few; but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse stooped his head, as the rider flung himself from the saddle, and came to the door, where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way and uttered the words, "upstairs," and John rushed thither. He checked himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew his horse's step too well; she had raised herself up, and stretched out both arms towards him before he entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was supported in his. There was a long, long silence.
"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.
"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John!"