A. D. T. Whitney "In this dim world of clouding cares We rarely know, till 'wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skies, The angels with us unawares. · · · · · · "Strange glory streams through life's wild rents, And through the open door of death We see the heaven that beckoneth To the beloved going hence." Gerald Massey.

"Read me the twenty-third Psalm," said Miss Henderson.

It was the evening before the day fixed upon by her physicians for the surgical operation she had decided to submit to.

Faith was in her place by the bedside, her hand resting in that of her aunt. Mr. Armstrong sat near—an open Bible before him. Miss Sampson had gone down the field for a "snatch of air."

Clear upon the stillness fell the sacred words of cheer. There was a strong, sure gladness in the tone that uttered them, that told they were born anew, in the breathing, from a heart that had proved the goodness and mercy of the Lord.

In a solemn gladness, also, two other hearts received them, and said, silently, Amen!

"Now the fourteenth of St. John."

"'In my father's house are many mansions.' 'I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.' Yes. It holds us all. Under one roof. One family—whatever happens! Now, put away the book, and come here; you two!"

It was done; and Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney stood up, side by side, before her.

"I haven't said so before, because I wouldn't set people troubling beforehand. But in my own mind, I'm pretty sure of what's coming. And if I hadn't felt so all along, I should now. When the Lord gives us our last earthly wish, and the kind of peace comes over that seems as if it couldn't be disturbed by anything, any more, we may know, by the hush of it, that the day is done. I'm going to bid you good night, Faith, and send you home. Say your prayers, and thank God, for yourself and for me. Whatever you hear of me, to-morrow, take it for good news; for it will be good. Roger Armstrong! Take care of the child! Child! love your husband; and trust in him; for you may!"

Close, close—bent Faith above her aunt, and gave and took that solemn good-night kiss.

"'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with us all. Amen!'"

With the word of benediction, Roger Armstrong turned from the bedside, and led Faith away.

And the deeper shadows of night fell, and infolded the Old House, and the hours wore on, and all was still. Stillest, calmest of all, in the soul of her who had dwelt there for nearly threescore years and ten, and who knew, none the less, that it would be surely home to her wheresoever her place might be given her next, in that wide and beautiful "House of the Lord!"

It was a strange day that succeeded; when they sat, waiting so, through those morning hours, keeping such Sabbath as heart and life do keep, and are keeping, somewhere, always, in whatever busy workday of the world, when great issues come to solemnize the time.

Almost as still at the Old House as at Cross Corners. No hurry. No bustle. Glory quietly doing her needful duties, and obeying all direction of the nurse. Mr. Armstrong in his own room, in readiness always, for any act or errand that might be required of him. Henderson Gartney alone in that ancient parlor at the front. The three physicians and Miss Sampson shut with Aunt Faith into her room. A faint, breathless odor of ether creeping everywhere, even out into the summer air.

It was eleven o'clock, when a word was spoken to Roger Armstrong, and he took his hat and walked across the field. Faith, with pale, asking face, met him at the door.

"Well—thus far," was the message; and a kiss fell upon the uplifted forehead, and a look of boundless love and sympathy into the fair, anxious eyes. "All has been done; and she is comfortable. There may still be danger; but the worst is past."

Then a brazen veil fell from before the face of day. The sunshine looked golden again, and the song of birds rang out, unmuffled. The strange, Sabbath stillness might be broken. They could speak common words, once more.

Faith and her mother sat there, in the hillside parlor, talking thankfully, and happily, with Roger Armstrong. So a half hour passed by. Mr. Gartney would come, with further tidings, when he had been able to speak with the physicians.

The shadows of shrub and tree crept and shortened to the lines of noon, and still, no word. They began to wonder, why.

Mr. Armstrong would go back. He might be wanted, somehow. They should hear again, immediately, unless he were detained.

He was not detained. They watched him up the field, and into the angle of the doorway. He was hidden there a moment, but not more. Then they saw him turn, as one lingering and reluctant, and retrace his steps toward them.

"Faith! Stay here, darling! Let me meet him first," said Mrs. Gartney.

Faith shrank back, fearful of she knew not what, into the room they had just quitted.

A sudden, panic dread and terror seized her. She felt her hearing sharpened, strained, involuntarily. She should catch that first word, however it might be spoken. She dared not hear it, yet. Out at the hillside door, into the shade of the deep evergreens, she passed, with a quick impulse.

Thither Roger Armstrong followed, presently, and found her. With the keen instinct of a loving sympathy, he knew she fled from speech. So he put his arm about her, silently, tenderly; and led her on, and up, under the close, cool shade, the way their steps had come to know so well.

"Take it for good news, darling. For it is good," he said, at last, when he had placed her in the rocky seat, where she had listened to so many treasured words—to that old, holy confidence—of his.

And there he comforted her.

A sudden sinking—a prostration beyond what they had looked for, had surprised her attendants; and, almost with their notice of the change, the last, pale, gray shadow had swept up over the calm, patient face, and good Aunt Faith had passed away.

Away—for a little. Not out of God's house. Not lost out of His household.

This was her will.