ONE very hot day last summer I was sitting by a patient in one of the wards of N. D. Infirmary. All the beds in the long room were occupied; and my attention was presently attracted by a woman stooping over a bed, and fondly kissing a pale-faced little girl.
When she was gone, I went over. “Fanny R., aged 14,” was written on the ticket at the bed’s head. I found that she was ill of dropsy, and got but little better; the doctors, she told me, did not say whether she would recover. I soon found that she did not know Jesus, or the forgiveness of sins; but she looked earnestly, while I spoke of His love; and when I saw her again, in a week or two she welcomed me warmly. “Oh, no,” she said, “she could not say that she was saved; she wished to be; she prayed to be; but she was not happy; she would not like to die.”
Shortly after, meeting her in the street, she said, “Oh, Miss, I am glad to see you.”
“Why, Fanny! are you so much better?”
“Yes, I am better!” she said, “but I am only out now for an hour’s walk.”
“Well, and have you been thinking of Jesus since I saw you?”
“Oh, yes! and what is best, He has forgiven me all my sins.”
“Has He?”
“Yes, I know He has, and I’m so happy now, and not afraid to die! I did ask Him to, ever since the first time you came to see E. K.”
Fanny soon left the infirmary and came to live at home, close to where I held a little class on a Sunday afternoon. She used to come in with her bright, beaming face, and sit and listen, amid all her pain, until she became too weak. “Oh, I am very happy!” she used to say. “I have Jesus, my Saviour, always with me.”
“Fanny,” I said one day, before some of her neighbors, “you know that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” she replied, with a smile.
Her little Bible is, as always, beside her. “I do love Jesus! and I know He loves me,” would be often her joyful exclamation.
One Sunday afternoon, as I was leaving her, she held my hand and said, “Oh, Miss, I can’t be afraid to die now, for my sins are all forgiven; and I would rather Ye to be with Jesus, than stay here. I long to see Him.”
“But He is with you now, is He not?”
“Oh, yes! He is precious!”
Those were Fanny R.’s last words to me. I little thought so then, for she was not worse than usual. Next Lord’s Day afternoon, after school, I tapped at her door—no answer; I lifted the latch, and peeped in. There lay little Fanny asleep; her mother beckoned me in, but promising to call in a week, I would not disturb her.
My home was many miles away, so that my opportunities of seeing her were seldom more than weekly; often less.
Next Sunday I had hardly taken my place in the little school, and recognized Fanny’s brother opposite me, when E. K. said, “Do you know, ma’am, that little Fanny is gone?”
“Fanny! Fanny R.? No! When?”
“Last night, ma’am; and so happy.”
After the children were gone, I went over to see the poor mother, whose kisses had first drawn my attention to her child.
Beside all that remained of that child, she repeated Fanny’s dying words, “Mother, I’m going to Jesus! Won’t you come? Oh, mother! I should be quite happy if you would but come to Him. Precious Saviour! Jesus! my life, my light, my peace, my joy, my all!” And on that young face, dear children, was an expression, a smile even in death, the like of which I never yet saw on any face in life. Fanny was gone! away from the body, and at home with the Lord!
The day before her death, a lady called to see her, who did not know the peace which the blood of Jesus gives; and she was surprised at Fanny’s joy in the prospect of death, and at her calm assurance of sins forgiven. “My dear child,” said the lady, “are you sure you are not deceiving yourself?”
“Jesus can’t deceive me, Mrs.―; Oh, no!”
“I hear th’ accuser roar
Of ills that I have done;
I know them well and thousands more,
Jehovah findeth none.”