“Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.”
As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst sobs convulsed her whole frame.
“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world, that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this, when her heart is almost torn out of her body.”
“Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold, than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.”
Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were before.”
“No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who was lying before them.
Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him; her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant, while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until sleep overpowered him.
The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s, and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live to please you, and will have no wish but yours.”
“You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes.
Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for her impatience the night before.