Young Carlton had not enjoyed the advantages of early instruction in religious truth. His pious mother died while he was in his infancy. His father took the utmost pains with the intellectual, social, and emotive education of his son. The subject of personal religion was never mentioned by him. He was not a disbeliever in Christianity; but he gave little heed to its peculiar claims. He was much in public life, and a reputation for high and honorable principle was all the religion to which he aspired. It is not strange therefore that Willard was ignorant of those consoling truths which formed the support of Eliza in her dark hour of trial.

In his view, she was a perfect being. He questioned the justice of the decree which was about to consign her to an early grave. He questioned the right of the Great Disposer to take from him his portion and destroy his hope. His life had been marked by strict integrity. He had no sympathy with the sensual. His aims had been purer and higher than those of the great majority of men. Why should the scathing bolt fall upon him, while the mercenary and abandoned passed on and realized their ends? Thoughts like these passed through the mind of Carlton, and as he walked to and fro in his chamber after the interview above described, they had no tendency to calm his agitation. The tempest in his bosom at length overpowered him. His father found him in a sleep bordering upon insensibility.

A day of illness intervened. On the next morning he again visited Eliza. There was the game voice and smile—perhaps the one was a little fainter—the other, if possible, a little sweeter than at the previous interview. Eliza entered upon a series of cheerful inquiries respecting his studies, his friends, and his purposes: she failed to chase away the deep expression of sorrow that rested upon his brow.

“It is useless,” said he, comprehending her purpose, “let us speak of what concerns us more, or let us enjoy each other’s society in silence. When with you I can even now speak of enjoyment.”

“I hope you will speak of it and feel it when I am gone; but I know that you cannot unless your affections are set in right tune by the hand of God. You are different from all other men. In my young dreams I used to fancy one whose whole life should consist in the exercise of affection. I never expected to find such a being. I have found one. Those affections will be to you ministers of sorrow, unless they are fixed upon something more enduring than an earthly object.”

“I can now think of nothing but you. If I am to have you but for a short time longer, do not attempt to turn my thoughts to other things. If I survive you, I will do all you wish.”

“I shall insist on the fulfillment of that promise.”

“Can you tell me,” said Willard, after a brief interval of silence, “why the heartless and cruel are suffered to remain, while the pure and gentle are taken away?”

“I cannot. I cannot tell why the summer flower was not made to endure as long as the mountain rock. We can only refer it to the wisdom and the will of God. But I begin to feel too much fatigued to converse longer. Will you read to me?”

“From what book?”

“From this, if you have no objection”—handing him a small copy of the New Testament, which she drew from her bosom. He took it and pressed it to his lips. He then read chapter after chapter, as she named them to him. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her countenance as she shaded her closed eyelids with her hand—beautiful as a statue, yet revealing the priceless soul in every vein.

“I wish you could pray with me,” she whispered, as he closed the volume and rose to depart.

“I cannot,” was the reply. This answer did not drive away the smile that was upon her lips—it was transferred to his, as they met.

“How long before you return to college?”

“I shall never leave you again.”

He retired. His last expression caused a flowing of tears more copious and exhausting than had been shed during the whole period of her decline.

Day after day Carlton took his station in the chamber of the consumptive, and watched her rapidly decaying strength. He spent much time in reading to her, occasionally from their favorite poets, but generally from the sacred volume. He thus became familiar with its truths, and no longer wondered at the calm confidence with which his beloved could look forward to lying down in the dark and narrow house.

At length she became too weak to rise from her bed, except for a few moments—usually at the close of the day. One evening she was sitting supported by her lover. Lights had not yet been brought into the apartment. The beams of a full October moon streamed through the casement, and painted its outlines in silver upon the floor. They sat and gazed in silence upon its soft brightness. For a few moments she leaned upon him more heavily, as if in sleep; then partially raising herself, she said:

“I saw many bright beings all clothed in that silver light, and they promised me that they would take care of you, and bring you to me.”

“Where were you?” said he, a chill creeping over him as if the inhabitants of the spirit world were around him.

She did not seem to hear his question, but continued—“Oh, it was beautiful—not an imperfect flower on all that plain—and such delicious gales—and such a firmament—and they looked upon me as the eyes of beloved friends, and I knew that they would watch over you for good.”

“Where was this?” said Willard, almost with terror. Still she heeded him not.

“The stream was as smooth as glass, and the moonbeams covered it with silver—it was wide, wide, and I could not see you. I looked in the far distance and saw a boat swiftly gliding toward me, and I knew you were in it, and were safe.”

“You are dreaming, dearest.”

She leaned more heavily upon him, and slept. He feared she was passing away. He tried to still his heart while he listened. He heard her gentle breathing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept up its workings. He laid her as gently as one would lay an infant upon her bed, and summoned her attendants. She continued to sleep. The physician assured him that death, though near, was not yet at the door.

The next morning revealed a marked change in the condition of the invalid. At first, she did not seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud, however, soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her usual smile and welcome.

“I shall never rise from my bed again,” said she; “do not leave me except when I sleep. My mind begins at times to give way. Remember your promise to prepare to meet me in the better land.”

“I will,” said he, nerving himself to composure for her sake. He then read the Scriptures to her, and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer in her behalf.

Ere long the aged pastor of the village church entered the chamber. He had been absent some time on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one of his parishioners. He silently pressed the hand of Carlton, and passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss upon the forehead of Eliza. His experienced eye told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh broken.

“You are on the verge of Jordan,” said he.

“Yes,” was the calm reply.

“Its waves are not rough?”

“Calm and peaceful.”

“You have no fears of death?”

“None.”

“Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. You can say Thy will be done?”

Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, “Thy will be done.”

Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the petitions had reference to him.

She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended. Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke.

“Did you hear that music?” said she.

“No, dearest.”

“It was the sweetest I ever heard. It must have come from the golden harps. Hark! hear it again.”

She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax its feeble grasp. He looked toward the pastor who came to the bedside.

“She is with her God,” said the old man, bending down and imprinting a kiss upon the cheek which felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, “and you my friends”—turning to the parents—“can say, ‘the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

——