AUTUMN as ever was followed by the dark days of winter. No lovely tints of rich, bright autumn foliage to please the eye with their varied shades. No soft, mellow sunset to shed its beauty over the distant Malvern Hills. November! chilly, foggy November again! And as the days grew colder and the bright fire blazing upon the hearth threw out its welcome beams, many a laughing child rejoiced that the snow would soon lie on the wintry ground, and the delights of sliding and skating be theirs once more. Yet there was one child who would never again take part in those youthful pleasures.
Poor little Ruthie was now laid aside. She had been growing weaker, and had for some time past been unable to move from her little bed in the corner of her mother's chamber. Many were the visits paid to the sick child by Maude and Carrie at this time. Sydney, too, went sometimes, but Ruthie said he was just a little too noisy to stop long. All that the children thought would interest her was repeated to the little invalid.
Very soon, however, the pain in the diseased hip was too great to allow of Ruthie experiencing the same pleasure in their visits, and when the severe fits of pain were over, the child would lie back pale and exhausted. After such seasons as these she would sometimes ask in a low, patient tone if Mrs. Grahame would come and sing to her. Nothing seemed to soothe the young sufferer in her most restless moments like the soft, sweet notes of my mistress's voice. The first time that Ruthie heard it was one evening some few weeks earlier, when all the children were sitting in the little parlor chatting about something that occurred at school.
A remark by one of the little ones gave the conversation a more serious turn, and Mrs. Grahame who had long wished to know the child's own thoughts respecting her affliction, now took advantage of what Maude had said, and drawing Ruthie towards her said,
“Tell me, Ruthie, do you think you will ever get well again?"
“Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't," was the reply after a moment's hesitation.
“If God were to spare you to grow up, would you like it?" asked Mrs. Grahame.
“Yes, if I were well," was the quick response.
“But now, dear child, suppose you never could be well, but must always suffer, wouldn't it be good of God to take you away from the pain and suffering?"
“Yes, I shouldn't always like to suffer."
“He has a beautiful home for those who love Him," said Mrs. Grahame softly, at the same time placing the child's thin hand in her own.
“I have heard of it at Sunday school," said Ruthie confidingly. “But it always seems so far off when I think about it."
“I don't think it so far off from you, Ruthie, as you think," said Mrs. Grahame, as she looked at the wasted features of the little sufferer.
“Not far off from me, ma'am!" repeated the child, as a new thought seemed to possess her mind.
“Do you know that you are a sinner, Ruthie?" asked Mrs. Grahame.
“Yes," answered the child, looking up with a little surprise. “We are all sinners, aren't we?"
“I don't want you to think of other people, but of yourself, dear child. You are a sinner; Jesus is a Savior. He wants you-you need Him; but if He had not shed His blood to put away your sins, dear Ruthie, you could never go to Him in that bright place where He lives. It is all holiness there!"
“MY sins," said the child, "I did not think of that. And did He die for me?"
“Yes, dear, if you really trust Him as much as if there was not another sinner in the wide world."
“Died for me! Died for me!" repeated the girl, as she leaned her slight frame forward and looked into her friend's face. "Then He loves me!"
“That is it, Ruthie. He loved you; died for you; loves you now, every day-every hour!"
“Is it believing to love Him for doing it?" asked the child with an earnestness quite new to her generally quiet nature.
“Not quite, dear; though it is a part of it. But believing is this: Jesus says something. All you have to do is to listen, and to know that it is true. This is what He says: 'He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.'"
“That means now, doesn't it, ma'am?" said Ruthie eagerly.
“Yes, dear child! Now, here in this quiet little room, Jesus speaks and tells you this."
“I do believe it, ma'am," said Ruthie, with a depth of expression that told how much was passing in her young heart.
“And listen. ‘To as many as received him, to them gave he the right to become the sons of God.’"
“It seems too good to be all for me," said the child, "and I never thought of it before! How He must love me!"
“Yes; and He will love you to the end."
“I love Him for doing it," said the child, in a low, impressive tone.
“‘We love him, because he first loved us,'" said Mrs. Grahame softly. "But you are tired, my child; would you like me to sing you a hymn of which I am very fond? You could lean against me and rest."
“Oh yes, ma'am, if you please," said Ruthie. Mrs. Grahame then sang:
“We know there's a bright and a glorious home
Above the heavens high,
Where all the redeemed shall with Jesus dwell;
But will you be there and I?
“In robes of white, o'er the streets of gold,
Beneath a cloudless sky,
They walk in the light of their Father's smile;
But will you be there and I?
“From every kingdom of earth they come
To join the triumphal cry,
Singing, 'Worthy the Lamb that once was slain;'
But will you be there and I?
“If you take the loving Savior now,
Who for sinners once did die,
When He gathers His own in that bright home,
Then you'll be there and I!
“If we are sheltered by the cross,
And through the blood brought nigh,
Our utmost gain we'll count but loss,
Since you'll be there and I."
Ruthie never forgot that night, and as I said before, nothing soothed the poor little sufferer like the soft, low voice of Mrs. Grahame. Very restless, at times, during the day had Ruthie been; and the poor mother, worn out by constant night-watching, lay down to take a little needful slumber, while Mrs. Grahame took her place by the sick child's bed. Through the clear, frosty air came the peals of bells ringing merrily. Their sound fell upon Ruthie's ears, as she lay wearily upon her pillow.
“Why are the bells ringing?" asked the child.
“For some victories the English have gained over the Russians, dear," replied Mrs. Grahame, as she passed her hand soothingly over the damp forehead, and wondered at its coldness. Then followed some moments of silence during which the child lay with closed eyes, evidently pleased to feel the gentle touch upon her brow.
“What are you thinking of, dear?” asked Mrs. Grahame in a whisper. She did not like to disturb that restful look; but she longed to hear again if Ruthie's Savior were still precious as before. Her eyes opened for a moment, and with a bright look came the answer,
"I was thinking of victory through the blood of the Lamb!"
“Is it all right, dear? all peace, all rest?" asked Mrs. Grahame. Slowly and distinctly came the answer-"All peace! All rest! His great love!"-and Mrs. Grahame asked no more.
Only a few days' more pain, a few days' more longing to be with Him who died for her, and the happy spirit passed from its lowly abode on earth up to the glorious courts of the mansions above.