A FEW months ago the sun was sinking over the old fir-tree forests surrounding a quiet university town, in one of the northern countries of Europe, causing the lengthening shadows of the old cathedral to die away in the misty gloom of a February afternoon.
The day had been short to the laborer, who was returning from his work, but to S— it had been long and weary. Once the days, bringing changes and pleasures, had passed almost unreckoned by her, but that was long ago. She had fallen into a decline more than a year past, and for several months had lain a weary sufferer, no longer able to wile away the time by reading, or working, cm amusement.
The evening of her life had come. It was with her a time of lengthening shadows and growing darkness. Her hopes had been all for this world, her ties were all to it; and they had been many, but she felt that one by one they had been loosening, and that she must soon bid adieu to all that held her heart. In her home, and in all the associations of her life, there was little to draw her heart to the Lord; many things to make it seem almost impossible for her ever to think of being a Christian. She had been mostly surrounded by those who treated religion with contempt, and to whom the name of Christ and that of Mahomet stood on almost equal ground—both respected as great adventurers in the attempt to teach morals, but the attempts of both alike regarded as failures.
Some Christian friends had watched the ravages of disease on that fair and sweet young lady, and with strong crying and tears had made supplication that she might be saved; but care for her body and the desire to keep her calm prevented her soul from being reached.
For a few days previous to the February afternoon alluded to, S— had seemed better, and her mother had taken the opportunity to go to the city on business, leaving her in charge of a friend.
On the mother’s return she observed with deep anxiety a change in her daughter, and instantly called the doctor, who after seeing her, told her mother that she might not live over the night. When this sad news was communicated to her she instantly became deeply agitated, and begged those around her to ask God that she might live until she obtained His peace, “For,” she said, “I have no assurance of my salvation.”
Her agony increased as the night wore on, notwithstanding that a Christian friend, who spent the night at her bedside, tried to show her the true ground of peace. Heedless of those around her, she gave vent to the anguish of her heart in such cries as— “Why did I put it off for the last moment?” “Perhaps it is too late.” “I always thought I might have a little time yet.” Then, turning to those at her bedside, she said, “Read to me what He says Himself;” and presently added, “He has sought me, but I have never been in earnest for Him.”
As the morning began to break, her anxiety only deepened and intensified. Her friends knew not what to do. Eternity—those numberless ages—lay before that poor dying girl, and for the first time, at the last moment of her life, she realized that she was on the road to spend it in unmitigated torment, with the devil and his angels.
With one foot on the brink of hell she seemed to stand; before her the blackness of darkness forever, the fire unquenchable; the stinging remorse, that He had called and she had refused, and that in the day of her calamity He would laugh at her.
One sought to comfort her by saying, “You have been always a good, obedient child,” but with a sad look she replied, “That was only nature. I have done nothing to please God. My salvation must be as by fire.”
Her friends could not allay her fears, but sent for the kind old minister of the cathedral, who spoke to her in a tender, fatherly way for a good while. At length, taking his Bible, he was about to read a psalm, when S— stopped him abruptly, exclaiming, “I must hear His own words. Read to me the third chapter of John.”
When he was about to leave she asked him if it might not be too late for her.
He spoke to her of the dying thief, who in his last moments had turned his eyes to the Lord Jesus, and who had breathed but one prayer, “Lord, remember me,” and of the grace that had been shown to him by the Lord. Then, as he looked at the fair, tender, amiable girl, he added soothingly, “I do not think, however, that is exactly your case.”
“Oh, that is my case; that is exactly my ease!” S— exclaimed; and a little later added, “I see now: I have just to come like a little child and cast myself into His arms.” Then she lay down, the agony over, and she soon was sleeping, like a babe in its mother’s arms, in perfect peace.
Thus S— passed away. J. S.