The attention of Miriam to Reuben was all that her feelings would permit her to give. She sat by his side and bathed his temples, and moistened his feverish hands, and listened with painful satisfaction to his unconscious utterance of her name.
On the seventh day of Reuben’s sickness all awaited the crisis, and a few hours before sunset he awakened from a protracted sleep, and turned his eyes on the hopeful countenance of Miriam. The members of the family present saw with inexpressible pleasure that his consciousness had returned, and they hoped.
But the physician pronounced against them. It was but a restoration of mental light before the darkness of death should set in.
“Miriam,” said Reuben, “let me speak to thee alone one moment”—and the family retired.
“I am dying, and the truths which you announced to me as we sat upon the hill-side some nights since—truths which the new teacher uttered, come home with strange distinctness to my heart. But is he, as his disciples would have us believe—is he the Messiah?”
“Do you believe it, dear Reuben?”
“I do not know, but I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon of all whom I have injured.”
“Surely that is the spirit of the Master’s teaching, Reuben, and what can you more.”
“But, oh, Miriam, where are the blessings which I had promised myself in thy love? Where the years of happiness in thy possession—when thou shouldst have been only mine?”
“Are these regrets, my beloved, suited to one who leans upon the verge of the grave? Oh, look forward, Reuben, and look upward. In heaven we can meet again—meet without fear of separation, without doubt of love.”