THE snow was drifting heavily as I took my way to a cottage which lay on a much-exposed hilltop. I had often been there, spending a spare hour by the bedside of the eldest daughter, Mary, who was fast following her brother to the grave, or I should rather say, to be together with the Lord. I should not have gone on such an evening, but had an idea that there would be very few more opportunities of seeing one whom I knew the Lord loved, and whom I could not but love myself. In Mary’s sweet, patient spirit one could not fail to see the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and to magnify the Lord for His goodness to her.
Strange it was that out of a household, where there seemed to be no care for the things of the Lord, He had been pleased to call one after another of the dear children to follow Him, and then to leave earthly joy for the heavenly home. The father I had rarely seen, for he studiously avoided meeting me, and hearing much of his tendency to infidelity I had called on his children at hours when he would in all probability be absent, dreading, for the sake of the dying ones, any disputation with him.
Johnnie had gone to be with the Lord a year or two before, and Mary was now following fast. Indeed, her life had been lengthened beyond our expectation; perhaps the peace of her soul, the great peace which God had given her, was the cause. The cottage reached, I was warmly welcomed by Mary’s mother, who had a name to live, but, as I came to know afterward, was dead, and who confessed to me, sometime after, that she put on the appearance of being pleased to see me so that I might take her for a Christian, and leave her alone.
I passed into the warm, cheery room, where all was clean and shining to perfection, for the mother had been one of the best of servants, and her daughters were looked upon in the neighborhood as well brought up and cared for.
I sat for a little while at the bright fire before going near the bedside of the dying girl. Upon her bed lay the Bible, which we had often read, together, and the little hymn book which I had given her. They were well thumbed and pencil marked. I knew all Mary’s favorite hymns, and had marked them in my own hymn book. One great favorite that she had often read to me began: ―
“Ah I shall soon be dying,
Time swiftly glides away;
But on my Lord relying,
I hail the happy day.”
Was it not strange that such a hymn should delight one, who had, as we say, everything to live for? She had been a bright, bonnie lassie, admired and loved by all around her, and if life had attractions for any one, it must have had for her. But to speak to her now of any of these things, was only to grieve her; doubtless it had cost her ‘ere they were wrenched out of her heart, and Christ exalted as the treasure, the only treasure.
Perhaps for a time she may have wished to live for Him, but that wish had been sacrificed to His sweet will, and Mary was now almost will-less, except that she longed to be with Him, whom she loved dearly. Even this had been a trouble to her. She had asked me, “Is it wrong to desire to be with my Saviour?” and I had tried to calm her troubled heart by saying, “Don’t you think He longs for you to be with Him, for He said, ‘Father, I will that they also whom Thou hast given Me be with Me where I am,’ and He exercises patience until He can have the desire of His heart? Do you think,” I asked, “that the Lord likes to see you suffering day by day? If it were not for some great purpose, He would snatch you into His bosom at once, but it is fruit to God, while you suffer and confess Him. By and by, He will say, ‘Well done, dear child!’ and then no more suffering or tears, but a long sweet rest on His bosom.” But I could never write the conversations we had about the Lord, His sufferings, and His glory; these were a never-failing theme.
This evening when I went to Mary’s bedside she was lying almost on her back, her eyes closed, as if in sleep, but a word or two made her open them, and she looked up with a smile. I knew, at any rate, that I was welcomed, as the big, speaking eyes turned on me.
She was dying, evidently. I could see the change had come; it might be hours, or it might only be minutes, and the dear one would take her flight to the Paradise of God.
I spoke a few words; and the thought overpowered me, that I should see her no more on the earth, and that our communion and friendship in the Lord were to be broken off for a time.
Her lips moved, and I bent down to hear what she was saying: “Pray.”
“Yes, Mary,” I said, “I will, but what for?” “That I may be with Him tonight. Ask Him to take me home now.”
I did so, saying, “Come, Lord Jesus, come now, and take Thy loved one home.”
I rose from my knees, and took her hand again. The lips moved, and I listened: “Oh to be with Jesus! oh to be at rest!”
We stood for a few moments in silence, then her mother burst into tears, and cried, “She’s gone, my Mary, my darling.” Yes, she was gone, her last prayer was answered.
She was with Jesus; she was at rest. J. S,