“That is just what I must discover. The main thing is not the form, but the substance. I want to write that which shall comfort and strengthen people, help them when they are in trouble, give them rest when they are tired, make life bright and cheery for them when the world seems gray.” He spoke with kindling eyes. “If I have ever written—if I shall ever write—a line that does not, in some poor way, however feeble, tend to this result, I pray that it may be blotted out, destroyed with the paper on which it is printed!”
This talk was followed by others of like nature. By degrees Wesley, finding a sympathetic listener always ready, and a kind but firm critic as well, fell insensibly into the habit of reading, at first passages here and there, afterward whole articles, to the gentle, dark-haired girl who was so quick to catch the deeper significance he had intended in this or that turn of thought and reflect it in her intent brown eyes.
So the spring wore on, and then came summer, with its long, fair days, its fragrant hay-fields, its never-ceasing chirp and whir of insect life. Month after month passed, and still Florence lingered with her kind friends. With the oppressive heats of August the old man had felt his strength fail rapidly, and spent much of his time within-doors, lying upon the lounge or in the stuffed rocking-chair, and needing many little offices from those around. This special duty Florence from the first assumed, and more loving care or regard to his slightest want he could not have received from a granddaughter. She would read or talk softly to him by the hour, would listen patiently to his childish, halting speech, and move lightly to and fro in his service, until he would have no one else about him, lying perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, when she was out of the house, until the familiar footfall or the pleasant voice told of her return.
As the flowers in the little garden fell before the early frosts and the maple boughs began to kindle through the mellow autumn haze, the life of the old man, weary with its long stay upon earth, was plainly preparing to lay aside its worn-out garments; and one bright September morning when the first rays of the sun found their way through the little window-panes of the low-browed east chamber, Florence knew that the moment had come.
She had been sitting up all night, and now stepped quickly across the kitchen to call the other members of the household. They came, and the final long, tired breath was drawn at last. They waited, but no more came. Wesley turned to Florence, took her hand and held it silently for a moment, and then, in the quiet country way, went out to give notice of the death, have the bell tolled, and arrange for the funeral.
In the loneliness that fell upon the old house during the next few weeks, Florence made no effort to go. It was plain that she was needed, for death, no matter how long or fully expected, is an awful visitor at the last, and leaves behind him an oppression which cannot be soon thrown off. So it was Florence who quietly carried away the funeral flowers after the family had returned from the little churchyard, it was she who threw open the blinds of grandfather’s room and let in the sweet, fresh sunshine, and it was she who, without forcing an unwelcome cheerfulness upon the rest, was nevertheless the light of the house from the time when her bright face, full of sympathy, greeted ’Lisbeth in the gray November mornings until the three gathered about the cosy tea-table by the flickering light of the fire.
Once her mother came down for a visit of a day or two, which lengthened into a fortnight. She had offered to pay for her daughter’s accommodations, to the intense astonishment and displeasure of ’Lisbeth.