“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their pinions to yon glorious light.
“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh, is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and powerless.
“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who, weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened, tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not, cannot come, until his will shall plead.”
The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest supplication! A cry of joy ecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended heavenward, and caused the seraphs round the Lamb’s pure throne to tune their harps anew!
Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past, shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much surprise, why this should be?
“These are regrets,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings of memory, as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”
It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.
Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement, filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair, his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple resting upon its placid surface, save, ever and anon, when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully along, reflecting the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails. At last, raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance of a matron, whose plain, neat attire, and light cautious movement, bespoke the office of nurse, he said —
“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”