AT a very early age my dear Frankie's conscience was awakened. During five years of his boyhood, many a time as he was going to bed he slipped into my hand little notes written by himself, asking many questions, all of which were upon one subject, and showed what the dear boy's thoughts and feelings were.
He wished to be good, and to know his sins forgiven. The coming of the Lord had a powerful hold upon his young mind, and was a frequent subject for inquiry in his little notes.
God, who had begun the good work, was carrying it on. Convictions deepened, and at length Frankie was in great distress about his soul. God in His infinite mercy, however, delivered him from his misery, so that he could say, "Through the grace of God I am saved.”
For some time previous to his having rest in the Lord the disease, which at length carried him off, showed itself. He became weak in body, and at times manifested considerable anxiety respecting his future position in life. But when he was able to look up to God as his Father his earthly prospects ceased to trouble him.
After a time it pleased God to try Frankie's trust and patience. Violent pains in the head seized him. Some two or three days after they came on, he was enabled to say, "I know the Lord is sending them for my good. There is something for me to learn. He will have His work perfected in me. Every throb of pain is like a little tune that says, ' For your good, for your good.'”
Some five weeks before he was taken, he said to his mother, “I don't think I shall ever go down stairs again; I have now done with everything on earth. I shall not see the garden again; the only thing I do feel a little about leaving is my walk in the garden with papa. I know he will miss me very much.”
Many a time we prayed together that it would please God to remove the pain, and I have witnessed the look of thankfulness when it passed away for a time. Once or twice a little word of impatience escaped his lips. "My dear Frankie," I would say, "I cannot tell why God permits this pain, but I do know that it is for your good, and mine too." At such times he would pray for patience to endure his trial without murmuring.
While yet suffering from these attacks, he remarked one evening, "I know these pains will leave me before God takes me. He will not take me away in the midst of such pain as this." And this was the case.
From the time he was confined to his bed I spent every evening with him, reading the gospel of John, and praying with him when he could bear it. Often when I had ceased praying he would begin, and in simple, earnest words plead for each member of the family. One evening in particular he took up the strain of prayer three times, each time in thanksgiving for himself, and then asking for the blessing of others.
He was particularly fond of repeating the first five verses of Psa. 103, and often we repeated them alternately, verse by verse. If I began with the first verse, he would instantly go on with the second, and so on. At other times, with such a look of peace, he would begin, "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" It was evident that he entered into the spirit of the words.
When we had finished reading the gospel by John, I asked him what he would like me to read next. "In the Revelation," he replied. The book opened on chapter 2:17, which I read. He immediately asked the meaning of the "white stone." I told him that one meaning was, communion with the Lord, a secret communion so intense that it could not be expressed to another. So Jesus was the nearest and dearest Friend, and what Jesus told him, and he said to Jesus, could not all be told even to me.
During his illness he manifested considerable anxiety for the salvation of the unsaved, and frequently prayed for the conversion of his young friends. On one occasion he spoke very earnestly to an unconverted person who came into his room. "Now-will you not go to Jesus? Ask Him to enable you to come. You must not say you cannot do this. I was not always what I am now, and He will do for you what He has done for me.”
As his mother was going out one morning he said to her, "If anyone inquires after me, say I have proved that nothing but Jesus will do; that I have gone to Him, and not been disappointed. To the unconverted my message is, 'Come to Jesus at once.' Say it is my message.”
Very often, before going to sleep, he would say, "Mamma, I am so happy—I cannot sleep without telling you—I have not a doubt nor a fear, and if I never open my eyes again in this world, I know it is all well.... Now that I am saved all must be well." After waking he would sometimes say, "I have had such a nice sleep; I am going to thank God for it. I will not sleep again without thanking Him.”
One cold day in August his mother remarked to him that the summer was ended; he 'looked up into her face, and said, with such a beautiful smile, "But we cannot say that we are not saved.”
On one occasion, as his mother was reading from the seventeenth of John to him, he stopped her, and said, "Just think, mamma, that with the same love the Father has loved the Son, He has loved me.”
He once asked us to pray that the Lord might soon take him; but a day or two after he said, "You must not now ask the Lord to take me, but to give me patience. I desire to glorify Him. I have prayed to Him, but I now want to praise Him for the rest of the time that remains." One night he remarked, "I will not ask papa to come to pray with me tonight; it makes me too dependent on him, and I am afraid that, if he always comes and prays for me, I shall not pray myself.”
Often, as he looked at his thin, wasted hands, he would remark, "The outward man is perishing, but the inward is renewing day by day." Anticipating the grief which we should feel when he was gone, he tried to comfort us. "I know what the first week will be to you, but you must think of me as being with the Lord. Paul could say a little while'; surely we can. It will be only a little while, then we shall be all again together, and then forever. The Lord will enable you to give me up; when He calls me He will give you strength to bear it.”
It was now evident that his end was drawing near. The night before he died he earnestly desired us not to sit up with him. "I have asked the Lord for a quiet night," he said, "and I am sure to have it, so go to bed." He appeared distressed when we hesitated, so we left him till midnight, when I returned to his room, and found him awake. "I have slept a little, and am going to sleep again," he said. He was then very calm and peaceful.
Looking up to his mother, and smiling, he said, "Now I have nothing more to ask the Lord for.”
“Oh, my darling boy," his mother replied, "we shall always need to ask, we shall need up to the last moment." He gave a very earnest look, and said, "Ah, but it is the last. I am going, and very soon: perhaps in a few hours. Do you not think so? Now the Lord is giving me my wish. I told you all the pain would be taken away, and so it is. I shall soon be with Jesus—blessed Jesus." Shortly after he added, "It has been peace and joy for a long time: now it is overflowing.”
“You know now what the white stone means?" I then said.
“Oh, yes," he replied, "and the name written on it.”
He gradually sank during the day. It was a day of very great suffering. In the evening, a smile spread over his countenance, and after one or two faint breathings he was in the presence of the Lord. R. B.