Chapter Sixth.

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"We all do fade as a leaf."—Isa. 64:6.

Dr. Landreth and Mildred gladly availed themselves of a pressing invitation to take up their old quarters at her father's until such time as their own house should be entirely ready for occupancy.

There was general rejoicing in the family that that time was not yet; they were so glad to have Mildred with them once more. Nor did she regret the necessity for continuing a little longer a member of her father's household, especially considering that this was Ada's last summer at home.

There was always a community of interests among them, a sharing of each other's joys and sorrows, a bearing of each other's burdens, and so all were very busy, now helping Mildred prepare bedding and napery, curtains, etc., and now Ada with her trousseau, and everything that could be thought of to add to her comfort in the foreign land to which she was going; for in due time Frank Osborne received word that he had been accepted by the Board.

Many tears were shed over that news, yet not one of those who loved her so dearly would have held Ada back from the service to which the Master had called her. She was His far more than theirs, and they were His, and would gladly give to Him of their best and dearest.

Others had given up their loved ones to go in search of gold—the wealth of this world, that perishes with the using—parting from them with almost breaking hearts; and should they shrink from a like sacrifice for Him who had bought them with His own precious blood? and to send the glad news of His salvation to those perishing for lack of knowledge?

The train of emigrants for California had left at the set time, their relatives and friends—in some cases wives and children—parting from them as from those who were going almost out of the world, and might never be seen again.

A journey to California is accounted no great thing in these days, when one may travel all the way by rail; but in those times, when it was by ox-teams and wagons, across thousands of miles of trackless wilderness, over which wild beasts and savage Indians ranged, it was a perilous undertaking.

So they who went and they who stayed behind parted as those who had but slight hope of ever meeting again in this lower world.

Nearly the whole town gathered to see the train of wagons set forth, and even Don Keith, as he witnessed the final leave-takings, the clinging embraces, the tearful, sobbing adieus, was not more than half sorry that he was not going along.

Fan drew the acknowledgment from him later in the day, when she overheard him softly singing to himself:

"'I jumped aboard the old ox-team,
And cracked my whip so free;
And every time I thought of home,
I wished it wasn't me.'"

"Yes, that would have been the way with you, Don, I'm sure," Fan said; "so be wise in time, and don't try it, even if father should consent."

"I don't know," he said, turning toward her with a roguish twinkle in his eye; "I think another part of the song suits me better:

"'We'll dig the mountains down,
We'll drain the rivers dry;
A million of the rocks bring home,
So, ladies, don't you cry.'"

"That's easier said than done, Don," Fan remarked, with a grave, half-sad look. "Oh, brother dear, don't let the love of gold get possession of you!"

"I don't love it for itself, Fan—I hope I never shall—but for what it can do, what it can buy."

"It cannot buy the best things," she said, looking at him with dewy eyes; "it cannot buy heaven, it cannot buy love, or health, or freedom from pain; no, nor a clear conscience or quiet mind. It will seem of small account when one comes to die."

"Don't talk of dying," he said a little uneasily; "we needn't think much about that yet—you and I, who are both so young."

"But a great many die young, Don, even younger than we are to-day."

She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and looked into his eyes with tender sadness.

As he noted the words, the look, and the extreme attenuation of the little hand, a sharp pang shot through his heart. Could it be that Fan, his darling sister, was going to die? The thought had never struck him before. He knew that she was not strong, that the doctor was prescribing for her and taking her out driving every day, and he had perceived that the older members of the family, particularly his mother, were troubled about her, but had thought it was only permanent loss of health they feared.

But the idea of death was too painful to be encouraged, and he put it hastily from him. How could he ever do without Fan? There was less than two years between them, and they had always been inseparable. No, he would not allow himself to think of the possibility that she was about to pass away from him to "that bourne whence no traveller returns."

He was glad that Annis joined them at that moment in mirthful mood.

"What's so funny, Ann?" he asked, seeing a merry twinkle in her eye.

"Oh, just some of Aunt Wealthy's odd mistakes. She was talking about that first winter we spent here, when she was with us, you remember; she said, 'The weather was very cold; many's the time I've had hard work to get my hands up, my hair was so cold.' Then she was telling something her doctor in Lansdale told her about a very dirty family he was called to see. A child had the croup, and he made them put it into a hot bath; he was still there the next morning, and saw them getting breakfast; and telling about it Aunt Wealthy said, 'They used the water to make the coffee that the child was bathed in.'"

"The doctor stayed and took breakfast with them, I suppose?" said Don dryly.

"Not he," laughed Annis; "he said he was very hungry, and they were kindly urgent with him to stay and eat, but he preferred taking a long, cold ride before breaking his fast."

"I admire his self-denial," remarked Don, with gravity. "Anything else of interest from Aunt Wealthy?"

"Yes," said Annis; "she was speaking of some religious book she had been reading, and said she had bought it from a portcollier. And yesterday, when I complained that I hated to darn my stockings, she said, 'Oh, my dear, always attend to that; a stocking in a hole, or indeed a glove either, is a sure sign of a sloven.'"

"Then," said Don gravely, "I trust you will be careful never to drop yours into holes."

"Don't let us make game of dear, kind old Aunt Wealthy," Fan said, in a gentle, deprecating tone.

"Oh, no, not for the world!" cried Annis, "but one can't help laughing at her funny mistakes; and indeed she is as ready to do so as any one else."

"Yes; and it's very nice in her," said Don.

For a while after that Don watched Fan closely, but noticing that she was always cheerful, bright, and interested in all that was going on, he dismissed his fears with the consoling idea that there could not be anything serious amiss with her.

By midsummer Mildred was fairly settled in her own house, and work for Ada was being pushed forward with energy and dispatch.

The wedding—a very quiet affair—took place in September. A few days later the youthful pair bade a long farewell to relatives and friends, and started for New York, whence they were to sail, early in October, for China.

The parting was a sore trial to all, and no one seemed to feel it more than Fan.

"Ada! Ada!" she sobbed, clinging about her sister's neck, "I shall never, never see you again in this world!"

"Don't say that, darling," responded Ada in tones tremulous with emotion. "I am not going out of the world, and probably we may be back again in a few years on a visit."

"But I shall not be here," murmured Fan. "Something tells me I am going on a longer journey than yours."

"I hope not," Ada said, scarcely able to speak. "You are depressed now because you are not well, but I trust you will soon grow strong again, and live many years to be a comfort and help to father and mother. I used to plan to be the one to stay at home and take care of them in their old age, but now, I think, that is to be your sweet task."

"I'd love to do it," Fan said; "I'd rather do that than anything else, if it should please God to make me well and strong again."

"And if not, dear," Ada said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "He will give you strength for whatever He has in store for you, whether it be a life of invalidism, or an early call to that blessed land where 'the inhabitants shall not say, I am sick.'"

"Yes," was the whispered response; "and sometimes I feel that it is very sweet just to leave it all with Him, and have no choice of my own."

"Thank God for that, my darling little sister!" Ada exclaimed with emotion. "I have no fear for you now, for I am sure you are ready to go if it shall please the Master to call you to Himself."

This little talk took place early in the day of Ada's departure, she having stolen into Fan's room as soon as she was dressed, to ask how the invalid had passed the night.

They were interrupted by the mother's entrance on the same errand.

Embracing both as they stood together, "My two dear daughters," she said. Then to Fan, "You are up and dressed early for an ailing one, my child."

"Yes, mother, I couldn't lie in bed this morning, the last that we shall have Ada with us," Fan answered with a sob, and holding her sister in a tighter clasp.

"The last for a time," Mrs. Keith returned cheerfully, though the tears trembled in her eyes. "Missionaries come home sometimes on a visit, you know, and we will look forward to that."

"And besides that, we know that we shall meet in the Father's house on high; meet never to part again," whispered Ada, pressing her lips to her mother's cheek, then to Fan's.

"But to be forever with the Lord," added Mrs. Keith. "Now, Fan dear, sit down in your easy-chair till the call to breakfast, and after this try to follow your Brother Charlie's advice—taking a good rest in the morning, even if you have to breakfast in bed."

Unconsciously to herself as well as to others the excitement of the preparations for Ada's wedding and life in a foreign land had been giving Fan a fictitious strength, which immediately on her sister's departure deserted her, and left her prostrate upon her bed.

Mother and the remaining sisters nursed her with the tenderest care, and after a time she rallied so far as to be about the house again and drive out occasionally in pleasant weather; but the improvement was only temporary, and before the winter was over it became apparent to all that Fan was passing away to the better land.

To all but Don and Annis. He refused to believe it, and she, with the hopefulness of childhood, was always "sure dear darling Fan would soon be better."

For many weeks the mother shrank from having her fears confirmed; often, as she noted the gravity and sadness of the doctor's face, the question trembled upon her tongue, but she could not bring herself to speak it; but one day, seeing, as she thought, a deeper shade of anxiety upon his face than ever before, she followed him from the room.

"Charlie," she said, in faltering accents, "I must know the truth though my heart break. Tell me, must my child die?"

"Dear mother," he said, taking her hand in his and speaking with strong emotion, "I wish I could give you hope, but there is none; she may linger a month or two, but not longer."

"Oh, how shall I ever tell her!" sobbed the mother; "her, my timid little Fan, who has always been afraid to venture among strangers, always clung so tenaciously to home and mother!"

"I think she knows it," he said, deeply moved. "I have seen it again and again in the look she has given me. And I doubt not God is fulfilling to her the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"May the Lord forgive my unbelief!" she said. "I know that He is ever faithful to His promises."

Returning to the sick-room she found Fan lying with closed eyes, a very sweet and peaceful expression on her face.

Bending over her she kissed the sweet lips, and a hot tear fell on the child's cheek.

Her blue eyes opened wide, and her arm crept round her mother's neck.

"Dearest mother, don't cry," she whispered. "I am glad to go and be with Jesus. You know it says, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm and carry them in His bosom.' I shall never be afraid or timid lying there. Oh, He will love me and take care of me, and some day bring you there too, and father, and all my dear ones; and oh, how happy we shall be!"

"Yes, love," the mother said, "yours is a blessed lot—to be taken so soon from the sins and sorrows of earth. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off.... Thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation, a tabernacle that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed, neither shall any of the cords thereof be broken. But there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of broad rivers and streams.... And the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick: the people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.'"

"Such sweet words," said Fan. "Oh, I am glad Ada has gone to tell the poor heathen of this dear Saviour! How could I bear to die if I did not know of Him and His precious blood that cleanseth from all sin!"

"Dearest child, do you feel quite willing to go?" Mrs. Keith asked, softly stroking her hair and gazing upon her with tear-dimmed eyes.

"Yes, mother, I do now, though at first it seemed very sad, very hard to leave you all to go and lie down all alone in the dark grave. But I don't think of that now; I think of being with Christ in glory, near Him and like Him. Oh, mother, how happy I shall be!"

The door opened, and Mildred came softly in. She bent over Fan, her eyes full of tears, her features working with emotion. She had just learned from her husband what he had told her mother.

"Dear Milly," Fan said, putting an arm about her neck, her lips to her cheek, "has Brother Charlie told you?"

Mildred nodded, unable to speak.

"Don't fret," Fan said tenderly; "I am not sorry, though I was at first. What is dying but going home? Oh, don't you remember how John tells us in the Revelation about the great multitude that stood before the throne and before the Lamb clothed in white robes and with palms in their hands; and how the angel told him, 'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple; and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.

"'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes'?

"Mother," turning to her with a glad, eager look, "may I not hope to be one of them if I trust in Jesus and bear with patience and resignation whatever He sends?"

"Surely, surely, my darling," Mrs. Keith answered, in tremulous tones. "They stand in the righteousness of Christ, and so will all who truly come to Him and trust only in His atoning sacrifice."

"Dear, dear Fan," whispered Mildred, caressing her with fast-falling tears, "I don't know how to give you up. And oh, darling—but I wish I had been a better sister to you!"

"Why, Milly, how could you have been?" Fan said, with a look and tone of great surprise. "I am sure you were always the best and kindest of sisters to me."

"No, not always," Mildred said, sorrowfully; "I used to be very impatient with you at times when you were a little thing given to mischief. But I feel now that I would give worlds never to have spoken a cross word to you."

"Ah, we must often have made a great deal of trouble with our mischievous pranks—Cyril, Don, and I"—Fan said, with a slight smile. "Don't reproach yourself for scolding us, Milly; I am sure we deserved it all, and more."

Mr. Keith was told the doctor's opinion that day, but the rest of the family were left in ignorance of it for the present.

It was from Fan herself Don learned it at length. They were alone together, and he was talking hopefully of the time when she would be up and about again, and he would take her boating on the river, riding or driving, and they would enjoy, as of old, long rambles through the woods in search of the sweet wild flowers that would come again with the warm spring days.

"Dear Don, dear, dear brother!" she said, giving him a look of yearning affection, "do you not know that when those days come I shall be walking the streets of the New Jerusalem, gathering such fruits and flowers as earth cannot yield?"

A sudden paleness overspread his face, his eyes filled, and his lip quivered. "Fan! Fan!" he cried, with a burst of emotion, "it can't be so! You are too young to die, and we can't spare you. You are weak and low-spirited now, but you will feel better when the bright spring days come."

She smiled sweetly, pityingly upon him, softly stroking his hair with her thin white hand as he bent over her.

"No, dear Don, I am not low-spirited," she said. "I am full of joy in the prospect of being so soon with my Saviour. Brother Charlie says it will not be very long now; a week or two, perhaps."

"I can't believe it! I won't believe it!" he groaned. "While there's life there's hope. It can't be that you want to go away and leave me, Fan?" and his tone was gently, lovingly reproachful.

"No," she said, her voice trembling, "it is pain to think of parting from you and the rest, especially our dear, dear mother, and yet I am glad to go to be with Jesus. Oh, how I long to see His face, to bow at His feet, and thank Him 'for the great love wherewith He hath loved us.'"

"But you have a great deal to live for, we all love you so."

"'In thy presence is fulness of joy,'" she repeated; "'at thy right hand there are pleasures forever more.'

"'For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.'

"'Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love His appearing.'

"'For since the beginning of the world men have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O God, beside thee, what He hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him.' O Don, would you keep me from it all?"

"Only for a while," he said, struggling for composure. "It is too dreadful to have you die so young."

"'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from henceforth,'" she repeated. "'My people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places.' O Don, think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, the beautiful river of the water of life, the tree of life with its twelve manner of fruits, the white robes, the golden harps, the crowns of glory; and that there will be no more sickness, or sorrow, or pain; no more sin, no night, no need of a candle to light them, nor of the sun, or the moon, the glory of God and Christ lighting it always.

"Think of Jesus making me to lie down in green pastures and leading me beside still waters."

"You seem just as sure, Fan, as if you were already there," he said, in admiring wonder.

"Yes, Don, because the promise is sure—the promise of Jesus, 'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"

Celestia Ann came in at that moment, carrying a china cup and plate on a small waiter covered with a snowy napkin.

"Here, I've fetched you a bit o' cream toast and a cup o' tea, Fan," she said. "I hope you kin eat it. But, dear me, you're lookin' all tuckered out. I'll bet Don's been a-makin' you talk a heap more'n was good fer ye. Now ye jest clear out, Don, and let's see if I can't be a better nurse."

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Don said gruffly, trying to hide the pain at his heart.

"No, and you haven't," said Fan, gazing lovingly after him as he turned to go; "if I've talked too much, it was my own doing."

Don hurrying down-stairs and into the parlor, which he expected to find empty, came suddenly into the midst of a little group—his father, mother, and Mildred—conversing together in subdued tones.

He was beating a hasty retreat, thinking he had intruded upon a private interview, when his father called him back.

"We have nothing to conceal from you, Don," he said, in tremulous tones, and the lad, catching sight of the faces of his mother and sister, perceived that they had both been weeping. "I suppose you know that—" Mr. Keith paused, unable to proceed.

"Is it about Fan?" Don asked huskily. "Yes, sir; she has just told me. But oh, I can't believe it! We must do something to save her!" he burst out, in a paroxysm of grief.

"What's the matter?" cried Annis, coming dancing into the room in her usual light-hearted fashion, but startled into soberness at sight of Don's emotion and the grief-stricken countenances of the others.

Her mother motioned her to her side, and putting an arm about her, kissed her tenderly, the tears streaming over her face. "Annis, dear," she said, in broken accents, "perhaps we ought not to grieve, Fan is so happy, but it makes our hearts sad to know that very soon we shall see her loved face no more upon earth."

"Mother!" cried Annis, hiding her face on her mother's breast and bursting into wild weeping, "O mother, mother, it can't be that she's going to die! She can never bear to go away from you!"

"Yes, dear, she can," was the weeping rejoinder. "She finds Jesus nearer and dearer than her mother, and how can I thank Him enough that it is so?"

"We have sent for Cyril," Mr. Keith said, addressing Don, and handing him a letter. "He hopes to be with us to-morrow. She could not go without seeing him once more."

A little later Don, left alone with Mildred, asked, "O Milly, is there no hope? no possibility of a favorable change?"

"None so far as man can see," she answered through her tears and sobs. "But with God all things are possible."

"I've been talking with her," he said presently, when he could control his emotion sufficiently to speak; "she told me herself that—that she was—going away. And she seemed so happy, so utterly without fear, that I could hardly believe it was our timid little Fan—always shrinking so from going among strangers."

"Yes," said Mildred, "what a triumph of faith! Her fearlessness is not from any lack of a deep sense of sin, but because she is trusting in the imputed righteousness of Christ. She trusts Him fully, and so her peace is like a river. It continually brings to my mind that sweet text in Isaiah, 'And the work of righteousness shall be peace; and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance forever.'"

And so it was to the very end; the sweet young Christian passed away so calmly and peacefully that her loved ones watching beside her bed scarce could tell the precise moment when her spirit took its flight.

There was no gloom in the death-bed scene, and there seemed little about the grave as they laid her body tenderly down there to rest till the resurrection morn, knowing that the spirit was even then rejoicing in the presence and love of her Redeemer.

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