But even as she spoke her voice grew fainter and fainter, and when she ceased she sunk upon his breast exhausted by the struggle of feelings too strong for a form so frail. He bent over her—
“Once, only once, thou only beloved—only once say that thou art mine,” he murmured in low thrilling tones.
She raised her face, and their eyes met in a long earnest gaze. Then slowly and tremblingly her white lips opened—
“Thine, thine forever.”
He knew that she was dying day by day, and yet he talked to his own heart of life and hope, as if he deemed in the madness of his devotion that such love as theirs would ward off death. And as time passed on we saw his form grow thin, and his pale face yet paler, and his dark eyes were dimmed as if he had looked too long and earnestly into the darkness and tears that overhang the grave. But she—there was a fierce and unnatural glow upon her cheek that told of the deadly fire within, and her step became slow and faltering, but the clear light of her eloquent eyes grew brighter and brighter as if she had looked through the gloomy clouds of death upon the unspeakable glory of God, and in gazing had forgotten how to weep. Thus in that hour did the fair and fragile become the support of the strong-hearted ones who, for her sake, were bowed to the earth with sorrow. Her love was no summer flower to wither beneath the shadows of the dark valley—and they who wondered at its strength knew not that it was fed with dews from the river of Life, and nourished with the sunshine of the world beyond the tomb.
It was the day for the celebration of the sacrament in our church at C——, and at her earnest request Emma was permitted to be with us on this occasion—perchance the last for her on earth. For some time she had been failing rapidly, and it was now evident to all that her pilgrimage was nearly finished. She entered when the afternoon service was over, walking slowly between her aged and heart-stricken parents. The young pastor did not lift his head, but sat with his face buried in his hands till all was still again. He was gathering strength to appear before the people of his charge as became a minister of God, that he might not appear to preach to them of a sustaining grace that had failed to help him in his hour of need.
When he arose his face was very pale, but all trace of emotion had vanished. All human affection incompatible with the Divine will seemed to have died within him, and he stood calmly and firmly up, and clasped his hands to pray. Long and earnest was that petition, and its burden was the cry of a suffering heart, “Not my will, oh God, but thine.” When it was ended, then were distributed the emblems of the sacred body that was broken, and the blood that was shed for man’s salvation, and again the pastor rose.
At first he spoke in low tones of the Lamb of God who gave himself to die for man, and of the efficacy of that death; but his voice rose with the theme, his eyes kindled, and his cheeks flushed as he proceeded.
“Since I sat here, beloved friends, I have had communion with the Father of Spirits. I seem to see the blessed Redeemer on the night in which he was betrayed, when he took the bread and brake it among his disciples. I see his glorious yet mournful face as he bade them keep this holy festival in memory of him. He knew that before the next evening the Son of God would have been laid, a bound and bleeding victim, upon the altar of man’s transgressions. Ay! before the morrow he must have offered up the atoning sacrifice that was to take away the sins of the whole world—to open the healing fountain whose waters should mingle with the stream of Death and take away its bitterness. He knew all the terrors of that fearful night in the garden—the bloody sweat, the buffeting, the ignominy, the agonizing death, were all before him. Conceive his feelings as he sat among that chosen band, as he met the earnest gaze of the loved one who lay in his bosom, and heard the eager, tremulous question, ‘Lord is it I?’