A GOLDEN SUNSET.

Dr. Sevier came to Richling’s room one afternoon, and handed him a sealed letter. The postmark was blurred, but it was easy still to read the abbreviation of the State’s name,—Kentucky. It had come by way of New York and the sea. The sick man reached out for it with avidity from the large bed in which he sat bolstered up. He tore it open with unsteady fingers, and sought the signature.

“It’s from a lawyer.”

“An old acquaintance?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” responded Richling, his eyes glancing eagerly along the lines. “Mary’s in the Confederate lines!—Mary and Alice!” The hand that held the letter dropped to his lap. “It doesn’t say a word about how she got through!”

“But where did she get through?” asked the physician. “Whereabouts is she now?”

“She got through away up to the eastward of Corinth, Mississippi. Doctor, she may be within fifty miles of us this very minute! Do you think they’ll give her a pass to come in?”

“They may, Richling; I hope they will.”

“I think I’d get well if she’d come,” said the invalid. But his friend made no answer.

A day or two afterward—it was drawing to the close of a beautiful afternoon in early May—Dr. Sevier came into the room and stood at a window looking out. Madame ZÉnobie sat by the bedside softly fanning the patient. Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She smiled and nodded approvingly, as if to say that that was just what she was about to propose, and went out, shutting the door with just sound enough to announce her departure to Dr. Sevier.

He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. The sick man looked at him, with a feeble eye, and said, in little more than a whisper:—

“Mary and Alice”—

“Yes,” said the Doctor.

“If they don’t come to-night they’ll be too late.”

“God knows, my dear boy!”

“Doctor”—

“What, Richling?”

“Did you ever try to guess”—

“Guess what, Richling?”

“His use of my life.”

“Why, yes, my poor boy, I have tried. But I only make out its use to me.”

The sick man’s eye brightened.

“Has it been?”

The Doctor nodded. He reached out and took the wasted hand in his. It tried to answer his pressure. The invalid spoke.

“I’m glad you told me that before—before it was too late.”

“Are you, my dear boy? Shall I tell you more?”

“Yes,” the sick man huskily replied; “oh, yes.”

“Well, Richling,—you know we’re great cowards about saying such things; it’s a part of our poor human weakness and distrust of each other, and the emptiness of words,—but—lately—only just here, very lately, I’ve learned to call the meekest, lovingest One that ever trod our earth, Master; and it’s been your life, my dear fellow, that has taught me.” He pressed the sick man’s hand slowly and tremulously, then let it go, but continued to caress it in a tender, absent way, looking on the floor as he spoke on.

“Richling, Nature herself appoints some men to poverty and some to riches. God throws the poor upon our charge—in mercy to us. Couldn’t he take care of them without us if he wished? Are they not his? It’s easy for the poor to feel, when they are helped by us, that the rich are a godsend to them; but they don’t see, and many of their helpers don’t see, that the poor are a godsend to the rich. They’re set over against each other to keep pity and mercy and charity in the human heart. If every one were entirely able to take care of himself we’d turn to stone.” The speaker ceased.

“Go on,” whispered the listener.

“That will never be,” continued the Doctor. “God Almighty will never let us find a way to quite abolish poverty. Riches don’t always bless the man they come to, but they bless the world. And so with poverty; and it’s no contemptible commission, Richling, to be appointed by God to bear that blessing to mankind which keeps its brotherhood universal. See, now,”—he looked up with a gentle smile,—“from what a distance he brought our two hearts together. Why, Richling, the man that can make the rich and poor love each other will make the world happier than it has ever been since man fell!”

“Go on,” whispered Richling.

“No,” said the Doctor.

“Well, now, Doctor—I want to say—something.” The invalid spoke with a weak and broken utterance, with many breaks and starts that we may set aside. “For a long time,” he said, beginning as if half in soliloquy, “I couldn’t believe I was coming to this early end, simply because I didn’t see why I should. I know that was foolish. I thought my hardships”—He ceased entirely, and, when his strength would allow, resumed:—

“I thought they were sent in order that when I should come to fortune I might take part in correcting some evils that are strangely overlooked.”

The Doctor nodded, and, after a moment of rest, Richling said again:—

“But now I see—that is not my work. May be it is Mary’s. May be it’s my little girl’s.”

“Or mine,” murmured the Doctor.

“Yes, Doctor, I’ve been lying here to-day thinking of something I never thought of before, though I dare say you have, often. There could be no art of healing till the earth was full of graves. It is by shipwreck that we learn to build ships. All our safety—all our betterment—is secured by our knowledge of others’ disasters that need not have happened had they only known. Will you—finish my mission?” The sick man’s hand softly grasped the hand that lay upon it. And the Doctor responded:—

“How shall I do that, Richling?”

“Tell my story.”

“But I don’t know it all, Richling.”

“I’ll tell you all that’s behind. You know I’m a native of Kentucky. My name is not Richling. I belong to one of the proudest, most distinguished families in that State or in all the land. Until I married I never knew an ungratified wish. I think my bringing-up, not to be wicked, was as bad as could be. It was based upon the idea that I was always to be master, and never servant. I was to go through life with soft hands. I was educated to know, but not to do. When I left school my parents let me travel. They would have let me do anything except work. In the West—in Milwaukee—I met Mary. It was by mere chance. She was poor, but cultivated and refined; trained—you know—for knowing, not doing. I loved her and courted her, and she encouraged my suit, under the idea, you know, again,”—he smiled faintly and sadly,—“that it was nobody’s business but ours. I offered my hand and was accepted. But, when I came to announce our engagement to my family, they warned me that if I married her they would disinherit and disown me.”

“What was their reason, Richling?”

“Nothing.”

“But, Richling, they had a reason of some sort.”

“Nothing in the world but that Mary was a Northern girl. Simple sectional prejudice. I didn’t tell Mary. I didn’t think they would do it; but I knew Mary would refuse to put me to the risk. We married, and they carried out their threat.”

The Doctor uttered a low exclamation, and both were silent.

“Doctor,” began the sick man once more.

“Yes, Richling.”

“I suppose you never looked into the case of a man who needed help, but you were sure to find that some one thing was the key to all his troubles; did you?”

The Doctor was silent again.

“I’ll give you the key to mine, Doctor: I took up the gage thrown down by my family as though it were thrown down by society at large. I said I would match pride with pride. I said I would go among strangers, take a new name, and make it as honorable as the old. I saw Mary didn’t think it wise; but she believed whatever I did was best, and”—he smiled and whispered—“I thought so too. I suppose my troubles have more than one key; but that’s the outside one. Let me rest a little.

“Doctor, I die nameless. I had a name, a good name, and only too proud a one. It’s mine still. I’ve never tarnished it—not even in prison. I will not stain it now by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God’s throne.”

The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry.

“Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?”

“Why, Richling?”

“Well—this has been—my—battle-ground. I’d like to be buried on the field,—like the other soldiers. Not that I’ve been a good one; but—I want to lie where you can point to me as you tell my story. If it could be so, I should like to lie in sight—of that old prison.”

The Doctor brushed his eyes with his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“Doctor,” said the invalid again, “will you read me just four verses in the Bible?”

“Why, yes, my boy, as many as you wish to hear.”

“No, only four.” His free hand moved for the book that lay on the bed, and presently the Doctor read:—

“There,” whispered the sick man, and rested with a peaceful look in all his face. “It—doesn’t mean wisdom in general, Doctor,—such as Solomon asked for.”

“Doesn’t it?” said the other, meekly.

“No. It means the wisdom necessary to let—patience—have her perf—I was a long time—getting any where near that.

“Doctor—do you remember how fond—Mary was of singing—all kinds of—little old songs?”

“Of course I do, my dear boy.”

“Did you ever sing—Doctor?”

“O my dear fellow! I never did really sing, and I haven’t uttered a note since—for twenty years.”

“Can’t you sing—ever so softly—just a verse—of—‘I’m a Pilgrim’?”

“I—I—it’s impossible, Richling, old fellow. I don’t know either the words or the tune. I never sing.” He smiled at himself through his tears.

“Well, all right,” whispered Richling. He lay with closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined cadence:—

“‘The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home;
‘Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom,
And the birds make music all the day.’”

The Doctor hid his face in his hands, and all was still.

By and by there came a whisper again. The Doctor raised his head.

“Doctor, there’s one thing”—

“Yes, I know there is, Richling.”

“Doctor,—I’ve been a poor stick of a husband.”

“I never knew a good one, Richling.” “Doctor, you’ll be a friend to Mary?”

The Doctor nodded; his eyes were full.

The sick man drew from his breast a small ambrotype, pressed it to his lips, and poised it in his trembling fingers. It was the likeness of the little Alice. He turned his eyes to his friend.

“I didn’t need Mary’s. But this is all I’ve ever seen of my little girl. To-morrow, at daybreak,—it will be just at daybreak,—when you see that I’ve passed, I want you to lay this here on my breast. Then fold my hands upon it”—

His speech was arrested. He seemed to hearken an instant.

“Doctor,” he said, with excitement in his eye and sudden strength of voice, “what is that I hear?”

“I don’t know,” replied his friend; “one of the servants probably down in the hall.” But he, too, seemed to have been startled. He lifted his head. There was a sound of some one coming up the stairs in haste.

“Doctor.” The Doctor was rising from his chair.

“Lie still, Richling.”

But the sick man suddenly sat erect.

“Doctor—it’s—O Doctor, I”—

The door flew open; there was a low outcry from the threshold, a moan of joy from the sick man, a throwing wide of arms, and a rush to the bedside, and John and Mary Richling—and the little Alice, too—

Come, Doctor Sevier; come out and close the door.

“Strangest thing on earth!” I once heard a physician say,—“the mysterious power that the dying so often have to fix the very hour of their approaching end!” It was so in John Richling’s case. It was as he said. Had Mary and Alice not come when they did, they would have been too late. He “tarried but a night;” and at the dawn Mary uttered the bitter cry of the widow, and Doctor Sevier closed the eyes of the one who had committed no fault,—against this world, at least,—save that he had been by nature a pilgrim and a stranger in it.