He was up with his mother a good deal. He would get up on the bed, and lay by her side; and she would hold him close, and talk good to him, dretful good.

I heard her tellin' him one day, that, "if ever he had a man's influence and strength, he must use them wisely, and deal tenderly and gently by those who were weaker, and in his power. That a manly man was never ashamed of doing what was right, no matter how many opposed him; that it was manly and n.o.ble to be pure and good, and helpful to all who needed help.

"And he must remember, if he ever got tired out and discouraged trying to be good himself, and helping others to be good, that he was never alone, that his loving Father would always be with him, and she should. She should never be far away from her boy.

"And it would only be a little while at the longest, before she should take him in her arms again, before life here would end, and the new and glorious life begin, that he must fit himself for. That life here was so short that it wasn't worth while to spend any part of it in less worthy work than in loving and serving with all his strength G.o.d and man."

And I thought as I listened to her, that her talk had the simplicity of a child, and the wisdom of all the philosiphers.

Yes, she would talk to him dretful good, a holdin' him close in her arms, and lookin' on him with that fur-off, happy look in her eyes, that I loved and hated to see,-loved to see because it was so beautiful and sweet, hated to see because it seemed to set her so fur apart from all of us.

It seemed as though, while her body was here below, she herself was a livin' in another world than ourn: you could see its bright radience in her eyes, hear its sweet and peaceful echoes in her voice.

She was with us, and she wuzn't with us; and I'd smile and cry about it, and cry and smile, and couldn't help it, and didn't want to.

And seein' her so satisfied about the boy-why, seein' her feel so good about him, made us feel good too. And seein' her so contented and happy, made us contented and happy-some.

And so the peaceful weeks went by, Cicely growin' weaker and weaker all the time in body, but happier and happier in her mind; so sweet and serene, that we all felt, that, instead of being sad, it was somethin' beautiful to die.

And as the long, sweet days pa.s.sed by, the look in her eyes grew clearer, -the look that reminded us of the summer skies in early mornin', soft and dark, with a prophecy in them of the coming brightness and glory of the full day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TIRZAH ANN AND MAGGIE IN THE DEMOCRAT.]

The mornin' of the last day in June Cicely was not so well; and I sent for the doctor in the mornin', and told Ury to have Tirzah Ann and Maggie come home and spend the day. Which they did.

And in the afternoon she grew worse so fast, that towards night I sent for the doctor again.

He didn't give any hope, and said the end was very near. A little before night the boys come,-Thomas Jefferson and Whitfield.

The sun went down; and it was a clear, beautiful evenin', though there was no moon. All was still in the house: the lamp was lighted, but the doors and windows was open, and the smell of the blossoms outside come in sweet; and every thing seemed so peacful and calm, that we could not feel sorrowful, much as we loved her.

She had wanted the boy on the bed with her; and I told Josiah and the children we would go out, and leave her alone with him. Only, the doctor sot by the window, with the lamp on a little stand by the side of him, and the mornin'-glories hangin' their cl.u.s.ters down between him and the sweet, still night outside.

Cicely's voice was very low and faint; but we could hear her talkin' to him, good, I know, though I didn't hear her words. At last it was all still, and we heard the doctor go to the bedside; and we all went in,- Josiah and the children and me. And as we stood there, a light fell on Cicely's face,-every one in the room saw it,-a white, pure light, like no other light on earth, unless it was something like that wonderful new light-that has a soul. It was something like that clear white light, falling through a soft shade. It was jest as plainly visible to us as the lamplight at the other end of the room.

It rested there on her sweet face, on her wide-open brown eyes, on her smilin' lips. She lay there, rapt, illumined, glorified, apart from us all. For that strange, beautiful glow on her face wrapped her about, separated her from us all, who stood outside.

The boy had fallen asleep, his dimpled arms around her neck, and his moist, rosy face against her white one. She held him there close to her heart; but in the awe, the wonder of what we saw, we hardly noticed the boy.

She heard voices we could not hear, for she answered them in low tones,- contented, happy tones. She saw faces we couldn't see, for she looked at them with wondern' rapture in her eyes. She was away from us, fur away from us who loved her,-we who were on this earth still. Love still held her here, human love yet held her by a slight link to the human; but her sweet soul had got with its true kindred, the pure in heart.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DEATH OF CICELY.]

But still her arms was round the boy,-white, soft arms of flesh, that held him close to her heart. And at the very last, she fixed her eyes on him; and, oh! what a look that was,-a look of such full peace, and rapturous content, as if she knew all, and was satisfied with all that should happen to him. As if her care for him, her love for him, had blossomed, and bore the ripe fruit of blessedness.

At last that beautiful light grew dimmer, and more dim, till it was gone- gone with the pure soul of our sweet Cicely.

That night, way along in the night, I wuzn't sleeping, and I wuzn't crying, though I had loved Cicely so well. No: I felt lifted up in my mind, inspired, as if I had seen somethin' so beautiful that I could never forget it. I felt perhaps somethin' as our old 4 mothers did when they would see an angel standin' with furled wings outside their tents.

I thought Josiah was asleep; but it seems he wuzn't, for he spoke out sort o' decided like,-

"Most probable it was the lamp."

CHAPTER XIII.

It was a lovely mornin' about three weeks after Cicely's death. Josiah had to go to Jonesville to mill, and the boy wanted to go to; and so I put on his little cloak and hat, and told him he might go.

We didn't act cast down and gloomy before the boy, Josiah and me didn't. He had worried for his ma dretfully, at first. But we had made every thing of him, and petted him. And I had told him that she had gone to a lovely place, and was there a waitin' for him. And I would say it to him with as cheerful a face as I could. (I knew I could do my own cryin', out to one side.)

And he believed me. He believed every word I said to him. And he would ask me sights and sights of questions about "the place."

And "if it was inside the gate, that uncle Josiah had read about,-that gate that was big and white, like a pearl? And if it would float down through the sky some day, and stand still in front of him? And would the gate swing open so he could see into the City? and would it be all glorious with golden streets, and shining, and full of light? And would his mamma Cicely stand just inside, and reach out her arms to him?-those pretty white arms."

And then the boy would sob and cry. And I'd soothe him, and swaller hard, and say "Yes," and didn't think it was wicked, when he would be a sobbin' so.

And then he'd ask, "Would she take him in her arms, and be glad to see her own little boy again? And would he have long to wait?"

And I'd comfort him, and tell him, "No, it wouldn't be but a little time to wait."

And didn't think it was wicked, for it wuzn't long anyway. For "our days are but shadows that flee away."

Wall, he loved us, some. And we loved him, and did well by him; and bein' a child, we could sometimes comfort him with childish things.

And this mornin' he wus all excitement about goin' to Jonesville with his uncle Josiah. And I gin him some pennys to get some oranges for him and the babe, and they set off feelin' quite chirk.

And I sot down to mend a vest for my Josiah. And I was a settin' there a mendin' it,-one of the pockets had gin out, and it was frayed round the edges.

And I sot there a sewin' on that fray, peaceful and calm and serene as the outside of the vest, which was farmer's satin, and very smooth and shinin'. The weather also wus as mild and serene as the vest, if not serener. I had got my work all done up as slick as a pin: the floor glittered like yellow gla.s.s, the stove shone a agreable black, a good dinner was a cookin'. And I sot there, happy, as I say; for though, when I had done so much work that mornin', if that vest had belonged to anybody else, it would have looked like a stent to me, I didn't mind it, for it was for my Josiah: and love makes labor light,-light as day.

I was jest a thinkin' this, and a thinkin' that though I had jest told Josiah, from a sense of duty, that "he had broke that pocket down by luggin' round so much stuff in it, and there was no sense in actin' as if he could carry round a hull car-load of things in his vest-pocket;" though I had spoken to him thus, from a sense of duty, tryin' to keep him straight and upright in his demeaner,-still, I was a thinkin' how pleasant it wuz to work for them you loved, and that loved you: for though he had snapped me up considerable snappish, and said "he should carry round in his pockets as much as he was a minter; and if I didn't want to mend it, I could let it alone," and had throwed it down in the corner, and slammed the door considerable hard when he went out, still, I knew that this slight pettishness was only the light bubbles that rises above the sparkling wine. I knew his love for me lay pure and clear and sparklin' in the very depths of his soul.

I was a settin' there, thinkin' about it, and thinkin' how true love, such as mine and hisen, glorified a earthly existence, when all of a sudden I heard a rap come onto the kitchen door right behind me; and I says, "Come in." And a tall, slim feller entered, with light hair, and sort o' thin, and a patient, determined countenance onto him. A sort of a persistent look to him, as if he wuzn't one to be turned round by trifles. I didn't dislike his looks a mite at first, and sot him a chair.

But little did I think what was a comin'. For, if you will believe it, he hadn't much more than got sot down when he says to me right there, in the middle of the forenoon, and right to my face,-the mean, miserable, lowlived scamp,-says he, right there, in broad daylight, and without blushing, or any thing, says he,-

"I called this morning, mom, to see if I couldn't sell you a feller."

"Sell me a feller!" I jest made out to say, for I wus fairly paralyzed by his impudence. "Sell me a feller!" "Yes: I have got some of the best kinds they make, and I didn't know but I could sell you one."

Sez I, gettin' my tongue back, "Buy a feller! you ask me, at my age, and with my respectability, and after carryin' round such principles as I have been carryin' round for years and years, you ask me to buy a feller!"

"Yes: I didn't know but you would want one. I have got the best kind there is made."

"I'll let you know, young man," says I, "I'll let you know that I have got a feller of my own, as good a one as was ever made, one I have had for 20 years and over."