“So shall they answer at the last whom He has chosen,” said the Judge. “I was sick, and ye visited me. He has promised to remember those who do that. Hold up your head, my daughter. God has been good to you. He has given you a son whom all men may look in the face, of whom you need never be ashamed. Stephen,” said the Judge, “come here.”
Stephen made his way to the bedside, but because of the moisture in his eyes he saw but dimly the gaunt face. And yet he shrank back in awe at the change in it. So must all of the martyrs have looked when the fire of the faggots licked their feet. So must John Bunyan have stared through his prison bars at the sky.
“Stephen,” he said, “you have been faithful in a few things. So shall you be made ruler over many things. The little I have I leave to you, and the chief of this is an untarnished name. I know that you will be true to it because I have tried your strength. Listen carefully to what I have to say, for I have thought over it long. In the days gone by our fathers worked for the good of the people, and they had no thought of gain. A time is coming when we shall need that blood and that bone in this Republic. Wealth not yet dreamed of will flow out of this land, and the waters of it will rot all save the pure, and corrupt all save the incorruptible. Half-tried men wilt go down before that flood. You and those like you will remember how your fathers governed,—strongly, sternly, justly. It was so that they governed themselves.
“Be vigilant. Serve your city, serve your state, but above all serve your country.”
He paused to catch his breath, which was coming painfully now, and reached out his bony hand to seek Stephen's. “I was harsh with you at first, my son,” he went on. “I wished to try you. And when I had tried you I wished your mind to open, to keep pace with the growth of this nation. I sent you to see Abraham Lincoln that you might be born again—in the West. You were born again. I saw it when you came back—I saw it in your face. O God,” he cried, with sudden eloquence. “I would that his hands—Abraham Lincoln's hands—might be laid upon all who complain and cavil and criticise, and think of the little things in life: I would that his spirit might possess their spirit!”
He stopped again. They marvelled and were awed, for never in all his days had such speech broken from this man. “Good-by, Stephen,” he said, when they thought he was not to speak again. “Hold the image of Abraham Lincoln in front of you. Never forget him. You—you are a man after his own heart—and—and mine.”
The last word was scarcely audible. They started for ward, for his eyes were closed. But presently he stirred again, and opened them.
“Brinsmade,” he said, “Brinsmade, take care of my orphan girls. Send Shadrach here.”
The negro came forth, shuffling and sobbing, from the doorway.
“You ain't gwine away, Marse Judge?”