Mary sadly shook her head, but made no reply. That night she slept a few hours, but in the morning it was evident that she was rapidly failing. Calling her mother to the bed-side, she said, with a beautiful smile upon her face:—
“Dear mother, I am going to-day—I have seen the angel that is to carry me over the river. O, I wish I could tell you all about it, but I can’t talk much now. I saw a beautiful country—there was no snow there, but the grass was all green, and there were flowers of every kind. There was a great temple, too, as high as the clouds, and it dazzled my eyes to look at it, it glittered so in the sun. And I saw thousands of little children, dressed in white, and the Saviour gathered them around him, and kissed them, and then they all sang, and looked so happy, and he looked so kind. But there was a dark, ugly river between me and them, and while I was thinking how I should like to get across, a tall, beautiful angel came up to me, and asked me if I would not like to become one of the Saviour’s little lambs. I told him I should, but I was afraid of the terrible river. Then he kissed me, and told me not to be afraid, for he would come for me in a few hours, and carry me over; and he said I never should be sick any more, nor go astray. And I asked if he, would not take you too, and father, and Jerry, and Emily, and Harriet, but he said:—‘Not yet.’ And while the angel was talking to me, the Saviour looked towards us, and stretched out his arms; and so I am sure that I shall go to heaven to-day.”
Mrs. Preston listened to this recital in tears, and was too much overpowered with her emotions to make any reply. It was but too evident that Mary’s presentiment of her approaching death was not unlikely to prove true. She continued to sink through the day. The doctor came once more, but he told the weeping mother he could do nothing more for the sufferer. In the afternoon, Mary desired that all the members of the family should be gathered around her. In a few simple, childish words, she bade each a farewell, and looked the affection which she could not express. And then, remembering the absent ones, she left messages of love for her father and Jerry. She soon after sank into a stupor, and apparently did not recognize her mother and sisters, who sat silently and tearfully watching her breathing, as each minute it became shorter and more labored. Just as the last spark of life was expiring, a heavenly smile beamed upon her pure young face, and the exclamation, “There he is!—the angel is coming!” faintly trembled upon her lips. A moment after, little Mary was gathered into the fold of the Good Shepherd, in heaven.
A little grave was dug in the frozen earth, in one corner of the garden, and there the dust of Mary now sleeps, in hope of a resurrection. But it is only the body that lies there. She went with the good angel, we trust, to become one of the lambs in the Saviour’s flock.
“There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty’s stream for ever flows,
And pleasure’s day no sunset knows.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FORESTS.
March had come—the month which is usually considered the beginning of spring, though in the part of the country where Clinton resided it seemed more like the last month of winter. The winter school had closed, and as it was too early to commence labors on the farm, the scholars were enjoying a long holiday. There was little for Clinton to do, at home, and even his father was at leisure much of the time, having chopped and hauled his year’s supply of wood, cleaned and repaired his tools, and done such other jobs as are usually deferred to the winter season. The deportment of Clinton, since his frank confession of the errors into which Jerry had led him, had been unexceptionable, both at home and at school. He seemed like himself again. His parents began to feel sorry that they had deprived him of his promised journey to Boston, although he had never once spoken of the matter from the day they announced their intention. In talking over the subject one evening after the children had gone to bed, they concluded to make up for Clinton’s disappointment, in part at least, by treating him to an excursion of another kind. The next morning, at the breakfast table, Mr. Davenport introduced the matter by saying:—
“Clinton, you’ve behaved pretty well, for some time past, and as I believe in rewards as well as punishments, I am going to propose to treat you to a little excursion, next week. Where should you prefer to go—to Portland, or to Bangor, or back into the forests, among the loggers? As the sleighing is now excellent, and bids fair to remain so for a week or two longer, we will take Fanny—or rather she shall take us; and you shall decide to which of these points we shall steer.”