“I WISH you could see Fanny, she is so young, such a timid, modest girl; I cannot win her confidence, and though she always answers ‘yes’ to what I ask, and says it brightly, still, I have not the assurance that she is a child of God.”
The speaker was an earnest laborer in the Lord’s vineyard; he had visited Fanny for a long time, and had spoken to her of the Great Physician, the Healer of the soul. He knew that the disease which held her fast baffled all human skill, and that her young life was hastening to its close; but as he said, though always gentle and ready to hear, she had never expressed to him her own thoughts, nor could he tell why she had of late answered “Yes,” to his earnest questions. The lady to whom her husband had thus spoken, promised to go to see the sick girl; and one bright Sunday they stood at the gate of the cottage where she lived. They entered, and after a few kind words, Mr. D. invited the aged father to stroll with him in the fields near, thus leaving Fanny and her visitor alone.
“You seem better than I expected to find you, Fanny,” her friend said, but even as she spoke she saw that although the inward fever that consumed her had left no traces of its life-destroying energy on her face, and only heightened the natural luster of her large, dark eyes, and added a bloom, as of health, to her delicate cheeks, she was, indeed, very ill. The lady hesitated as she looked at the sweet, young face, and wondered how she should begin to speak; but the girl seemed to read her thoughts.
“I know, lady, what you would say to me; you see that I am ill, very ill, you are wondering if I am ready to go; am I right?”
“Yes,” replied her visitor, “it is just that; I am longing to know if you have salvation.”
“I will tell you,” said Fanny. “When the doctor told me that I was so very ill, I was angry, I would not believe it. At that time, Mr. D. used to visit me, and he was so gentle and patient; he would read to me, and tell me of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the beauty and brightness of having Him for a Saviour, till at last it all seemed to come to me, and about three weeks ago, Christ Himself was revealed to me; I believed on Him, and I have salvation. It was all through Mr. D.,” she added, gratefully.
“He will be indeed glad when he knows this, Fanny, for he doubted if you were a child of God.”
“Did he? Oh! I wanted him to know, only I had not the courage to tell him.” As she spoke, tears fell from her eyes; it pained her to hear of a doubt as to the possession of that which was so real to her. Christ was hers, and she did not mind knowing she was very ill now, and that she must die. What a difference between this time and three weeks ago! She was a poor, weak, suffering thing then, but now, though she daily grew weaker and more suffering, she possessed a life which can never die, for did not the Lord Himself say: “Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that believeth on Me hath everlasting life”? Christ is still speaking, and to you, my reader, He says, even now, “The words that I speak unto you they are spirit, and they are life.”
After some interesting conversation had passed between the visitor and her young friend, she remarked, “Your experience is a very happy one, Fanny; you have passed through no real sorrow down here, and now, soon, you are going to be immeasurably happy forever.”
“Yes,” answered her listener, “it seems to me just like this. When I was well, I used to stay with my married sister, and I was happy enough, but still it was not home, and when the cart used to come to fetch me, I would look far away to catch the first glimpse of the lovely hills of Aughrim, and when they came in sight, I used to feel I was at home—at home; I am happy—very happy though, now, nothing here on earth is home, but I am going home.” As she spoke, she leaned forward and clasped her thin fingers, as with intense earnestness she continued; “Oh! I am glad that I am going, for I fear to sin against the blessed Saviour, my great sorrow in living would be if I should grieve Him, but I shall never sin there.”
The time had passed more rapidly than Mrs. D. had thought, for from the latticed window she saw the returning figures of her husband and the old man. “Fanny,” she said, “we must part now, but I will come again.”
The girl took her kind visitor’s hand in both hers, and fixed her dark eyes with a long, earnest gaze upon her, then she softly murmured: “Forgive me, lady, I wanted to know your face again; I shall remember it now, wherever we meet; I shall know you when we meet at home.”
“But I shall come tomorrow, my child.” “We may never meet,” she answered, “I may go first.”
“Oh! no, not before I come.”
But Fanny was persistent. “It might be,” she said. Happy Fanny! It almost seemed as if she had heard, as one straining her ears for the first sound of a voice from home, the welcome message; “This day thou shalt be with Me in Paradise,” for, but a few hours after, she was gone. Fanny had only learned “the beauty and brightness of having Christ for a Saviour,” three short weeks before, but she could say, “He loved me, and gave Himself for me.” Her affections were no more upon the earth where He died, and her heart followed Him, up to the place where He now is— “Home.”
“Beyond the everlasting hills,
At God’s right hand, it lies:
His smile its vast dimension fills
With joy, that never dies.”
S. C. M. A.