“I shall insist on the fulfillment of that promise.”
“Can you tell me,” said Willard, after a brief interval of silence, “why the heartless and cruel are suffered to remain, while the pure and gentle are taken away?”
“I cannot. I cannot tell why the summer flower was not made to endure as long as the mountain rock. We can only refer it to the wisdom and the will of God. But I begin to feel too much fatigued to converse longer. Will you read to me?”
“From what book?”
“From this, if you have no objection”—handing him a small copy of the New Testament, which she drew from her bosom. He took it and pressed it to his lips. He then read chapter after chapter, as she named them to him. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her countenance as she shaded her closed eyelids with her hand—beautiful as a statue, yet revealing the priceless soul in every vein.
“I wish you could pray with me,” she whispered, as he closed the volume and rose to depart.
“I cannot,” was the reply. This answer did not drive away the smile that was upon her lips—it was transferred to his, as they met.
“How long before you return to college?”
“I shall never leave you again.”
He retired. His last expression caused a flowing of tears more copious and exhausting than had been shed during the whole period of her decline.