“I fear not, father; I fear not death. I could close my eyes for ever on the green land of God without a sigh. Had death met me in the field, the bugle would have sung my requiem, and I would have laid me on the turf, happy in being permitted to die like a man; but to die like a thief—like a dog—is fearful and appalling. Besides, there are ties which bind to earth souls stronger than mine. Alas! alas! what is the common approach of Death to the stealthy and ignominious step with which he visits me!”
“Compose thyself,” said the preacher, “and let these earthly wishes have no place in thy thoughts. Time, to thee, is nearly done, and eternity is at hand. Approach thy Creator, as the Father of Mercy, in His Son. Murmur not at His dispensations; for He chasteneth in love.”
“A hard lesson!” said Basil. “Tell me, didst though ever love a wife, a son, or a daughter?”
“I lost a wife and a son,” said the preacher with emotion.
“In what manner?” said Basil.
“I visited the west country, on business of the Congregation, and in my absence the hand of Death was busy in my house. When I returned, my wife and son were both beneath the sod. But God’s will be done! They are now in heaven,” said he, while the tears stole down his cheeks.
“And,” said Basil, “did you never feel a desire again to see them? Did you not wish that the decree of fate had been altered, and that your family had been again restored to you?”
“Often—often,” said he, wringing his hands. “God forgive me! often have I murmured at His dispensation. At some seasons I would have bartered my life—nay, my soul’s weal—for one hour of their society.”
“And yet ye bid me do that which ye confess to be above your efforts! You lost but your wife and child; I lose my own life—my fame—my Mary.”
“But your father”——