"Yes, darling--and we'll be with him there by and by."

"Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to n.o.body and went out.

Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired little spirit.

Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat, leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer room,--Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs.

Somers, were all there with offers of a.s.sistance; but Mr. Linden knew well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various tones of different voices--which made their way once in a while--the two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat.

Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now pa.s.sing on before them.

"We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in death as in life."

Much of the time the child slumbered--or lay in a half stupor, though often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly, asking for singing or reading or talk,--letting Faith smooth his hair, or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the mortal began to give way before the immortal.

In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said,

"Read about heaven--what you used to."

Mr. Linden took his little Bible--remembering but too readily what that "used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation--

"'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.--And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of G.o.d did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'"

The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were silent--thinking of "the city that hath foundations."

"That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if his mind had gone back to the morning hymn.

"Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled, and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever--and where dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by."

The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet sleep, but with the smile yet left.

It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pa.s.s beyond it,--when the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith wiped away tears--and looked--and brushed them away again; but for a long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be quietly,--

"Endecott--it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!"

He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through all its deep human feeling,--

"'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed us to G.o.d by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people and nation'!"

"And," said Faith presently, lower still,--"can't you, as Bunyan says, hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!--"

Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succ.u.mbed gently, and the restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers.

There was little "talk" called for after that time--hardly any, though never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful, pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious have no worse resting-place--would let every faint waking minute find the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."

Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid long--never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own.

Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said nothing. He seemed bewildered--or astounded. "I never knowed," he said once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at night--but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors--and their word's about as good one side as 'tother."

At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh.

"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.

Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."

"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."

"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"--she said with a determinate quietness.

"How can I let you stay?--you ought not to watch here all night--unless there were something for you to do."

"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.

"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,--"Faith--it is near the dawning!--and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."

"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.

"I know--" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,--"but I think you ought not."

"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,--"that you wish me to go?"

It was hard for him to say yes--but he did.

She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled--but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.

If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs.

Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness--thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there--of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then--looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.

"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."

Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again.

"I'll wait an hour yet."

"Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?"

"Send?--O no, mother!"

Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home to-night, dear."

"Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she kissed her mother and they went up stairs together.

No, he did not come home,--and well a.s.sured that he would not, Faith ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their way. The night was very still--the endless train of stars sweeping on in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up, in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost breathless for more tidings--waiting, as if by the least noise or stir she might lose something.

It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in--even as she sat so listening,--heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again, except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up stairs--and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;--and then gave way--rare for her--to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that was quieting, if it was stirring.

Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn, yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast--for rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day when Christ broke the bars of death and rose.

Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare when it was over.

"You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room.

"O yes! I can go.--I _must_ go"--she added softly.