Once more his thoughts turned to his little ones. “Janet,” he whispered, as a woman of middle age, of spare form, with strongly marked features, betokening firmness and good sense, and clothed in the humblest style of attire, glided noiselessly into the room. “I feel that I am going.” He lifted up his pale and shrivelled hand, and pointed to his children. “What is to become of them, it is hard to leave them destitute, utterly destitute, not a friend in the world from whom they may claim assistance.”
“Dinna talk so, minister,” said the woman, approaching him, and placing his arm beneath the bed-clothes. “Ye yoursel have often told us to put faith in God, that He is the Father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow. The dear bairns will nay want while He looks after them. I hanna dwelt forty years or more with the mistress that’s gone, and her sainted mother before her, to desert those she has left behind, while I ha’ finger to work with, and eyes to see. I’ll never forget either to impress on their minds all the lessons you have taught me. It would have been little worth ganging to kirk if I had not remembered them too. I am a poor weak body mysel, it will not be me but He who watches over us will do it, let that comfort you, minister. The bairns will never be so badly off as ye are thinking, now that fever has made body and soul weak, but the soul will soon recover, and ye will rejoice with joy unspeakable. I repeat but your ain words, minister, and I ken they are true.”
“Ye are right, Janet. My soul is reviving,” whispered the dying man. “Call in the bairns. I would have them round me once more. The end is near.”
Janet knew that her master spoke too truly; though it grieved her loving heart to put a stop to the play of the happy young creatures, and to bring them to a scene of sorrow and death. “But it maun be,” she said to herself, as she went to the door of the manse. “He who kens all things kens what is best, and the minister is ganging away from his toils and troubles here to that happy home up there, where he will meet the dear mistress, and, better still, be with Him who loved him, and shed His blood to redeem him, as he himsel has often and often told us from the pulpit.”
She went some way down the hill, unwilling to utter her usual shrill call to the young ones. “Ye maun come in now, bairns,” she said, in a gentle tone; when the children came running up on seeing her beckoning. “The minister is sair ill, and ye’ll be good and quiet, and listen to what he says to you, he is ganging awa on a long long journey, and ye’ll promise to do what he’ll tell you till ye are called to the same place he’ll reach ere lang.”
Something in her tone struck Margaret, who took her hand, and looking up into her face burst into tears. She already knew what death was. Donald, the eldest boy, had lingered a short distance behind.
David, seeing Margaret’s tears, with a startled, anxious look, took Janet’s other hand. “Is father ganging to heaven?” he asked, as they got close to the house, showing how his mind had been occupied as they came along.
“I am sure of it, and it is a happy, happy place,” was the answer. “Ye’ll speak gently, Donald,” she said, turning round to the eldest boy, who, ignorant of his father’s state, might not, she feared, restrain his exuberant spirits.
There was no need of the caution, for the minister’s altered look struck even Donald with awe. Janet led the children up to the bedside. The dying father stretched out his hands, and placed them on their heads, as they clustered up to him, while his already dim eyes turned a fond glance at their young fresh faces. “You will listen to Janet when I am away, and pray God to help you to meet me in heaven. Make His word your guide, and you cannot mistake the road.”
“I will try to mind that, and tell Donald and David, too,” was all that Margaret could answer.