Chapter II: Part 2

"Yes," she said; "I could never feel it right to go if father and mother should oppose it. Yet I am sure they will not, if they see reason to believe we are called of the Master; for ever since I can remember their most ardent wish for their children has been that they might be entirely devoted to His service."

At that very moment the honored parents of whom she spoke, sitting side by side in the vine-covered porch of their home, resting after the labors of the day, were talking of their children, and rejoicing in the well-founded belief that most, if not all, of them had already given themselves to that blessed service.

They spoke of Mildred and Annis, the eldest and youngest, now on the way home after their winter at the Oaks; of Rupert, their eldest son, a prosperous and highly respected man of business; Cyril, absent at college; Zillah, with her husband and babe, living just across the street; of Ada and her betrothed; and, lastly, of the only two just then in sight--Don and Fan--down in the garden, seated on a bench under a spreading tree, the lad whittling, his sister watching him, with hands lying idly in her lap.

There was languor in the droop of her slender figure; the eyes that rested now upon Don's face, now on his work, were unnaturally large and bright, and though a rich color glowed in her cheeks, her features were thin and sharp.

"Stuart," said Mrs. Keith, in low, slightly tremulous tones, gazing fixedly at Fan as she spoke, "I am growing uneasy about that child; she is not well. She scarcely complains, but is losing flesh and strength very fast of late."

"Only because she is growing so rapidly, I think, Marcia," he said; "see what a brilliant color she has."

"Not the bloom of health, I fear," sighed the mother. "I am very glad Dr. Landreth will be here soon. I hope he may be able to do something for her."

"I hope so, indeed. Perhaps it is change of climate and scene she needs. Probably it would have been better had she gone with the others last fall."

"I don't know; it is too late to think of it now, but if Charlie recommends a trip, we must manage to give it to her."

"Certainly; and in that case you will have to go too, for I doubt if anything could induce Fan to leave her mother."

"No; what a dear, affectionate child she is! And how she and Don cling to each other."

In the pause that followed that last remark Fan's low, clear tones came distinctly to their ears.

"Ah, now I see what you are making, Don; a spoon, isn't it?"

"Yes; it'll be very useful in the journey across the plains."

"Whose journey?"

"Mine," he said; then sang gayly:

"O California! oh, that's the land for me!
I'm bound for Sacramento,
With the washbowl on my knee."

"That's the tune of 'O Susannah,'" she said, as he ceased; "but where did you get those words?"

"Haven't you heard it before?" he asked. "They've been singing it all over town; the gold fever's raging, and a lot of fellows are talking of going off across the plains to the California diggings. If they do, I'd like to make one of the party."

The parents, silently listening, exchanged glances of mingled surprise and concern, while Fan exclaimed, "O Don, you can't be in earnest?"

"You'd better believe I am," laughed the lad. "Why, it would be the greatest fun in the world, I think, to go and dig gold."

"Exceedingly hard work, my boy," Mr. Keith said, raising his voice that it might reach the lad.

Don started and turned his head. He had not thought of any one but Fan hearing his talk.

"But we wouldn't mind working very hard indeed for a little while to make a fortune, father," he answered in a lively tone, springing up and advancing to the steps of the porch, Fan following, and seating herself upon them.

"Ah, but who can insure the making of the fortune?" asked Mr. Keith gravely. "Where one will succeed, Don, probably hundreds will fail and die of the great hardships to be encountered in the search for gold--the exhausting toil, scanty fare, and exposure to the inclemencies of the weather. It cannot fail to be a rough and toilsome life, full of danger and temptation, too; for the desperadoes and outlaws from all parts of the country, if not of the world, are always among the first to rush to such places; and even men who behaved respectably at home often throw off all restraint there, and act like savages."

"Think, too, of the dangers to be encountered by the way, Don," said his mother; "a trackless wilderness to cross, supplies of food and water perhaps giving out, to say nothing of perils from wild beasts and hostile Indians."

"Oh, mother," he said, "if you'd ever been a boy you'd know that danger has great attractions sometimes."

"But oh, Don," exclaimed Fan, "just think what mother, and I, and all of us would be suffering from anxiety on your account!"

"Ah, but you'd feel paid for it all when you saw me come home with my pockets full of gold!"

"Gold far too dearly bought, if you came back to us a rough, hardened man, instead of the dear boy you are now," said his mother.

"I've no notion of ever becoming a rough, mother mine," returned the lad in a half-playful tone; "and what is virtue worth that can't stand temptation?"

"Not much, my son," said his father gravely; "but what mockery to pray, 'Lead us not into temptation,' and then rush needlessly into it. But let the subject drop, for I am quite resolved never to give my consent to so wild a project."

The boy's face clouded, but, accustomed to obedience, he ventured no reply. "Here, Fan, I'll give this to you," he said, handing her the now finished spoon.

"Thank you; it is very pretty," she returned, regarding it admiringly.

"Fan, dear, I think the dew is beginning to fall," said Mrs. Keith, rising; "come in; come both of you. We will adjourn to the sitting-room."

They did so, and were there presently joined by Frank and Ada, who came in hand in hand, their faces full of a strange mixture of joy and sorrow. Mrs. Keith sat in a low rocking-chair, softly passing her hand over Fan's hair and cheek, the young girl having seated herself on a stool at her mother's side, and laid her head in her lap.

They, as well as Mr. Keith and Don, seemed to be silently musing as the other two entered. But all four looked up at the sound of their footsteps, and Mrs. Keith, noticing the unusual expression of their countenances, asked a little anxiously, "What is it, Ada, my child?"

Ada opened her lips to reply, but no sound came from them. Hastily withdrawing her hand from Frank's she sprang forward, and knelt beside her sister.

"Mother, oh, mother, how can I ever leave you!" she exclaimed, tears coursing down her cheeks.

Mrs. Keith was much surprised, knowing of no adequate cause for such emotion, especially in one usually so calm and undemonstrative as Ada.

"Dear child," she said, caressing her, "we will hope never to be too far apart for frequent intercourse. Frank's present charge is but a few miles distant."

"But, mother, he thinks he is called to foreign missions," Ada returned in trembling tones; "can you let me go? Can you give me to that work?"

The query, so sudden, so unexpected, sent a keen pang to the tender mother's heart. With a silent caress she drew her loved child closer, and they mingled their tears together.

"What--what is this I hear, Frank?" asked Mr. Keith huskily, starting up and drawing nearer the little group; for Frank had followed Ada, and stood looking down upon her, his features working with emotion.

With an effort he controlled it, and in a few words gave the desired information. "He had for some time felt an increasing interest in the foreign work, and desire to give himself to it should it be made plain that he was called of God to that part of the field."

"Oh no, no!" cried Fan, putting her arms about her sister's neck, "we can't spare you. Why mayn't Frank work for the Master here as well as there? Laborers are needed in both places."

"Very true," said Frank, "and I trust our earnest desire is to be guided to that part of the vineyard where the Master would have us."

"It shall be my prayer that you may," said the mother with emotion, drawing Ada's head to a resting-place on her breast as she spoke; "and dearly, dearly as I love my child, hard as it will be to part with her, I cannot hesitate for a moment if the Master calls her to go."

"No, nor can I," Mr. Keith said, sighing and bending down to stroke Ada's hair in tender, fatherly fashion.

Chapter Fifth.

"Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss."
--THOMSON'S _Seasons_.

The sweetest of May mornings; the sun shines brightly in a sky of heavenly blue, wherein float soft, fleecy clouds of snowy whiteness, casting faint shadows now here, now there, over the landscape. The forest trees have donned their spring robes of tender green, and at their feet the earth is carpeted with grass spangled with myriads of lovely wild flowers of varied hues; the air is redolent of their sweet breath and vocal with the songs of the birds in the tree-tops and all the pleasant sounds of rural life. Everything seems so bright, so fresh, and new that Annis, as the stage rolls rapidly onward, bringing her every moment nearer home, is almost wild with delight, while the older members of the party, if less demonstrative, are scarcely less happy.

They counted the miles, as those at home were counting the hours and the minutes. The journey from Philadelphia to Northern Indiana was far more tedious and wearisome in those days than it is now, and they were tired enough of travel to be glad to reach their journey's end; rest would be delightful; but it was the thought of home and dear ones that constituted their chief joy.

The stage was due in Pleasant Plains just at noon, and to-day, having no hinderance from bad weather or bad roads, arrived punctually to the minute. The mail was dropped at the post-office, a passenger at the hotel.

"To Lawyer Keith's next?" queried the driver, bending down from his high seat to bestow a roguish look and smile upon the impatient Annis.

"Yes," Dr. Landreth said, "we all belong there."

The stage was sweeping on again before he had half finished his sentence.

In another minute it drew up at the gate, and oh the greetings, the embraces that followed! the happy laughter, the looks of love, the tears of joy! for to the younger ones the separation had seemed very long, as, indeed, so far as Miss Stanhope was concerned, it really had been.

The mutual affection of herself and niece was like that of mother and daughter, and they had not seen each other's faces for more than ten years. All the family loved the old lady, and she came in for her full share of the joyous welcome. Zillah was there with her husband and babe, and Ada had her betrothed by her side.

They sat down to dinner together, a large and happy party, most of them more disposed for conversation, however, than for doing justice to the fare upon which Celestia Ann had expended much thought and skill.

She was still with Mrs. Keith, devotedly attached to her and the whole family, and no one had bestowed a heartier hug upon Annis, Mildred, or even Aunt Wealthy, than this somewhat forward but very warm-hearted maiden.

"You don't none o' ye eat half as much as you'd orter, considerin' what a sight o' trouble I took a-gettin' up this dinner," she grumbled, as she waited on the table. "I remembered all your likings--Miss Milly's, and Miss Stanhope's, and Annis's--and done my best to foller 'em all. I broiled the chickings, and smashed the 'taters, and took a sight o' pains with the pies and puddin's; but you don't none o' you seem to 'preciate it, 'thout it's Don there, for here I'm a-carryin' out yer plates half full every time."

"That's because we have been so bountifully helped," said Mildred. "Father has heaped my plate with enough for two or three meals. So you mustn't feel hurt, Celestia Ann, for I assure you I find your cookery delicious."

"So do I," said Annis. "I haven't tasted as good since we left the Oaks."

A chorus of complimentary remarks followed from the rest of the company, and Celestia Ann's wounded vanity was appeased.

"Fan," Dr. Landreth remarked, looking across the table at her, "I think you are the worst delinquent of all of us; you have eaten scarcely anything, and I suspect it is no new thing, for you have grown thin since I saw you last."

"Father says it's because I'm growing so fast," Fan said, blushing with embarrassment, as she felt that all eyes were turned upon her. "It's spring-time, too, and that is apt to make one lose appetite and strength."

"I dare say you need change," remarked Annis wisely. "You see how well and strong I am; don't you wish now you'd gone South with us?"

"No; I wouldn't have missed the nice time I've had with mother for anything," returned Fan, her eyes seeking her mother's face with a look of fond affection.

Mrs. Keith's answering smile was very sweet. "Yes," she said, "Fan and I have had a very pleasant, happy time together. And now, with all our dear ones restored," glancing fondly from Annis to Mildred and Aunt Wealthy, "we shall be happier than ever."

"Home's a good place," remarked Don, pushing away his plate, and settling himself back in his chair with the air of one whose appetite is fully satisfied, "but I, for one, would like to see something of the world."

"Time enough yet, my boy," remarked Dr. Landreth laughingly; "you may well feel thankful that you are not forced out into it now, before you are fully prepared for the battle of life."

Don looked slightly vexed and impatient. "Yes," he said, "that's the way you all talk; it's wait, wait, wait, instead of 'strike while the iron's hot.'"

"What iron?" inquired Mildred, with a look half of interest, half of amusement.

"I want to go to California and dig gold," blurted out the boy; "but father and mother won't hear of it, though there's a large party starting from here next week."

"Oh, Don, what an idea!" exclaimed Mildred. "I'm glad you can't win consent."

"I too," said the doctor. "Don, if you knew what the life is you would not want to try it. I have had experience of it, you remember."

"Who are going from here?" asked Mildred.

Quite a list of names was given in reply, including those of several of her familiar acquaintance.

"How will they go?" she asked, a look of grave concern coming over her face.

"Across the plains," answered Rupert, "in wagons drawn by ox-teams. It can't fail to be a slow and toilsome journey."

"And a dangerous one as well," added his mother, with a deprecating look at Don.

"Yes, I know," said the lad, "but I'm fairly spoiling for a taste of that, mother," he added, with a laugh.

She shook her head. "Ah, my boy, I wish you knew when you were well off."

They left the table, and flocked into the parlor; but Mrs. Keith drew Dr. Landreth aside, and whispered in his sympathizing ear her anxiety in regard to Fan. She described every symptom without reserve, then asked, with a look of deep solicitude, "What do you think of the case?"

"You must allow me a little time to study it, mother," he said; "but I trust it will prove nothing serious. She must have rest, a tonic, a daily walk of such length as she can take without undue fatigue, and frequent drives. Those I can give her as I visit my country patients."

"Thank you," she said. "I have been very impatient for your return on the dear child's account."

"What is that you are talking of, mother?" Mildred asked, joining them.

"Of Fan, Milly; she hasn't seemed well for some time, and I have been consulting the doctor about her."

Mildred's eyes filled. "My darling little sister!" she exclaimed. "I hope it is nothing serious?" She turned an eager, inquiring look upon her husband.

"We will hope not, Milly," he said cheerfully. "As your father says, she is growing fast, and, besides, this warm spring weather is apt to cause a feeling of languor. I trust that with tender care and watchfulness we may be able to help her to grow into strong, healthful womanhood."

Both mother and sister looked relieved, and presently they rejoined the others.

Frank Osborne was just taking leave. He must return to the duties of his charge, and might not see them again for several days.

Ada left the room with her betrothed for a few last words.

When she entered the parlor again Aunt Wealthy, making room for her on the sofa by her side, asked, "Are you to be settled near Pleasant Plains, dear?" adding, "I hope so, for it would be very hard for you to go far from father and mother, brothers and sisters, and for them to have you do so."

Ada could not answer for a moment, and when she found her voice it was tremulous with emotion.

"We do not know yet, Aunt Wealthy," she said. "It will be hard to leave home and dear ones, but we are ready and willing to go wherever the Lord may send us."

"Ada, what do you mean?" asked Mildred. "Surely, Frank has no thought of seeking a foreign field?"

"Can't you give me up if the Master calls me away, Milly?" asked Ada, taking her sister's hand and pressing it fondly in hers.

"In that case I would not dare hold you back if I could; His claim is far stronger than mine," Mildred said, with emotion.

Then the whole story came out, and the matter was discussed in a family council.

But they could go no farther than the expression of their opinions and wishes. Frank had already offered himself to the Board of Foreign Missions, and his going depended upon their acceptance or rejection.

"I hope they'll say, 'No, we think you can find enough to do where you are,'" said Annis playfully, but with eyes full of tears, putting her arms around Ada's neck and laying her cheek to hers as she spoke. "I'm sure I don't know what we should ever do without you!" she went on. "I don't like to have you go away even as far as the country church where Frank preaches now."

"Well, dear, we won't borrow trouble; 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" Ada said, holding her close, and fondly kissing the rosy cheek.

"'And as thy days, so shall thy strength be,'" added Mrs. Keith. "Our blessed Master will never lay upon any of us a heavier burden than He gives us strength to bear."

"No," said Rupert. "And now--to turn to a pleasanter theme than the possibility of losing Ada--Mildred, don't you want to go and take a look at your new house, you, and the doctor, and anybody else that cares to see it?"

"Oh, is it done?" cried Annis, suddenly forgetting her grief and loosening her hold of Ada to clap her hands with delight.

"Yes, all but the papering and painting," replied Rupert.

"I move we all go in a body," said Mildred gayly.

"So many of us! People would stare," objected Fan, with her usual timidity.

"What matter if they should?" laughed Mildred. "But it is only a step, and there are very few neighbors near enough to watch our proceedings."

"And why shouldn't we be independent and do as we please?" remarked Don loftily. "I vote in the affirmative. Come, let's go."

"A dozen of us, without counting the babies," murmured Fan, with a little sigh. But she tried on the dainty white muslin sun-bonnet her mother handed her, took Don's offered arm, and went with the rest.

As they passed from room to room Mildred's eyes shone with pleasure.

The plan of the house was the joint work of herself and husband, embodying their ideas in regard to comfort and convenience. Rupert had been left in charge of the work during their absence, and had acquitted himself of the trust to their entire satisfaction.

Both returned him warm thanks, Mildred saying again and again, "I am delighted, Ru; you have not forgotten or neglected the least of our wishes."

"I am very glad it pleases you, Milly," he said, with a gratified look. "It has been a labor of love to attend to it for you."

"It is quite done except the work of the papers and painterers, is it not?" queried Aunt Wealthy.

"Yes," said the doctor; "and we will set the painters at work to-morrow; the paperers as soon as our boxes of goods arrive."

Chapter Sixth.

"We all do fade as a leaf."--Isa. 64:6.

Dr. Landreth and Mildred gladly availed themselves of a pressing invitation to take up their old quarters at her father's until such time as their own house should be entirely ready for occupancy.

There was general rejoicing in the family that that time was not yet; they were so glad to have Mildred with them once more. Nor did she regret the necessity for continuing a little longer a member of her father's household, especially considering that this was Ada's last summer at home.

There was always a community of interests among them, a sharing of each other's joys and sorrows, a bearing of each other's burdens, and so all were very busy, now helping Mildred prepare bedding and napery, curtains, etc., and now Ada with her trousseau, and everything that could be thought of to add to her comfort in the foreign land to which she was going; for in due time Frank Osborne received word that he had been accepted by the Board.

Many tears were shed over that news, yet not one of those who loved her so dearly would have held Ada back from the service to which the Master had called her. She was His far more than theirs, and they were His, and would gladly give to Him of their best and dearest.

Others had given up their loved ones to go in search of gold--the wealth of this world, that perishes with the using--parting from them with almost breaking hearts; and should they shrink from a like sacrifice for Him who had bought them with His own precious blood? and to send the glad news of His salvation to those perishing for lack of knowledge?

The train of emigrants for California had left at the set time, their relatives and friends--in some cases wives and children--parting from them as from those who were going almost out of the world, and might never be seen again.

A journey to California is accounted no great thing in these days, when one may travel all the way by rail; but in those times, when it was by ox-teams and wagons, across thousands of miles of trackless wilderness, over which wild beasts and savage Indians ranged, it was a perilous undertaking.

So they who went and they who stayed behind parted as those who had but slight hope of ever meeting again in this lower world.

Nearly the whole town gathered to see the train of wagons set forth, and even Don Keith, as he witnessed the final leave-takings, the clinging embraces, the tearful, sobbing adieus, was not more than half sorry that he was not going along.

Fan drew the acknowledgment from him later in the day, when she overheard him softly singing to himself:

"'I jumped aboard the old ox-team,
And cracked my whip so free;
And every time I thought of home,
I wished it wasn't me.'"

"Yes, that would have been the way with you, Don, I'm sure," Fan said; "so be wise in time, and don't try it, even if father should consent."

"I don't know," he said, turning toward her with a roguish twinkle in his eye; "I think another part of the song suits me better:

"'We'll dig the mountains down,
We'll drain the rivers dry;
A million of the rocks bring home,
So, ladies, don't you cry.'"

"That's easier said than done, Don," Fan remarked, with a grave, half-sad look. "Oh, brother dear, don't let the love of gold get possession of you!"

"I don't love it for itself, Fan--I hope I never shall--but for what it can do, what it can buy."

"It cannot buy the best things," she said, looking at him with dewy eyes; "it cannot buy heaven, it cannot buy love, or health, or freedom from pain; no, nor a clear conscience or quiet mind. It will seem of small account when one comes to die."

"Don't talk of dying," he said a little uneasily; "we needn't think much about that yet--you and I, who are both so young."

"But a great many die young, Don, even younger than we are to-day."

She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and looked into his eyes with tender sadness.

As he noted the words, the look, and the extreme attenuation of the little hand, a sharp pang shot through his heart. Could it be that Fan, his darling sister, was going to die? The thought had never struck him before. He knew that she was not strong, that the doctor was prescribing for her and taking her out driving every day, and he had perceived that the older members of the family, particularly his mother, were troubled about her, but had thought it was only permanent loss of health they feared.

But the idea of death was too painful to be encouraged, and he put it hastily from him. How could he ever do without Fan? There was less than two years between them, and they had always been inseparable. No, he would not allow himself to think of the possibility that she was about to pass away from him to "that bourne whence no traveller returns."

He was glad that Annis joined them at that moment in mirthful mood.

"What's so funny, Ann?" he asked, seeing a merry twinkle in her eye.

"Oh, just some of Aunt Wealthy's odd mistakes. She was talking about that first winter we spent here, when she was with us, you remember; she said, 'The weather was very cold; many's the time I've had hard work to get my hands up, my hair was so cold.' Then she was telling something her doctor in Lansdale told her about a very dirty family he was called to see. A child had the croup, and he made them put it into a hot bath; he was still there the next morning, and saw them getting breakfast; and telling about it Aunt Wealthy said, 'They used the water to make the coffee that the child was bathed in.'"

"The doctor stayed and took breakfast with them, I suppose?" said Don dryly.

"Not he," laughed Annis; "he said he was very hungry, and they were kindly urgent with him to stay and eat, but he preferred taking a long, cold ride before breaking his fast."

"I admire his self-denial," remarked Don, with gravity. "Anything else of interest from Aunt Wealthy?"

"Yes," said Annis; "she was speaking of some religious book she had been reading, and said she had bought it from a portcollier. And yesterday, when I complained that I hated to darn my stockings, she said, 'Oh, my dear, always attend to that; a stocking in a hole, or indeed a glove either, is a sure sign of a sloven.'"

"Then," said Don gravely, "I trust you will be careful never to drop yours into holes."

"Don't let us make game of dear, kind old Aunt Wealthy," Fan said, in a gentle, deprecating tone.

"Oh, no, not for the world!" cried Annis, "but one can't help laughing at her funny mistakes; and indeed she is as ready to do so as any one else."

"Yes; and it's very nice in her," said Don.

For a while after that Don watched Fan closely, but noticing that she was always cheerful, bright, and interested in all that was going on, he dismissed his fears with the consoling idea that there could not be anything serious amiss with her.

By midsummer Mildred was fairly settled in her own house, and work for Ada was being pushed forward with energy and dispatch.

The wedding--a very quiet affair--took place in September. A few days later the youthful pair bade a long farewell to relatives and friends, and started for New York, whence they were to sail, early in October, for China.

The parting was a sore trial to all, and no one seemed to feel it more than Fan.

"Ada! Ada!" she sobbed, clinging about her sister's neck, "I shall never, never see you again in this world!"

"Don't say that, darling," responded Ada in tones tremulous with emotion. "I am not going out of the world, and probably we may be back again in a few years on a visit."

"But I shall not be here," murmured Fan. "Something tells me I am going on a longer journey than yours."

"I hope not," Ada said, scarcely able to speak. "You are depressed now because you are not well, but I trust you will soon grow strong again, and live many years to be a comfort and help to father and mother. I used to plan to be the one to stay at home and take care of them in their old age, but now, I think, that is to be your sweet task."

"I'd love to do it," Fan said; "I'd rather do that than anything else, if it should please God to make me well and strong again."

"And if not, dear," Ada said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "He will give you strength for whatever He has in store for you, whether it be a life of invalidism, or an early call to that blessed land where 'the inhabitants shall not say, I am sick.'"

"Yes," was the whispered response; "and sometimes I feel that it is very sweet just to leave it all with Him, and have no choice of my own."

"Thank God for that, my darling little sister!" Ada exclaimed with emotion. "I have no fear for you now, for I am sure you are ready to go if it shall please the Master to call you to Himself."

This little talk took place early in the day of Ada's departure, she having stolen into Fan's room as soon as she was dressed, to ask how the invalid had passed the night.

They were interrupted by the mother's entrance on the same errand.

Embracing both as they stood together, "My two dear daughters," she said. Then to Fan, "You are up and dressed early for an ailing one, my child."

"Yes, mother, I couldn't lie in bed this morning, the last that we shall have Ada with us," Fan answered with a sob, and holding her sister in a tighter clasp.

"The last for a time," Mrs. Keith returned cheerfully, though the tears trembled in her eyes. "Missionaries come home sometimes on a visit, you know, and we will look forward to that."

"And besides that, we know that we shall meet in the Father's house on high; meet never to part again," whispered Ada, pressing her lips to her mother's cheek, then to Fan's.

"But to be forever with the Lord," added Mrs. Keith. "Now, Fan dear, sit down in your easy-chair till the call to breakfast, and after this try to follow your Brother Charlie's advice--taking a good rest in the morning, even if you have to breakfast in bed."

Unconsciously to herself as well as to others the excitement of the preparations for Ada's wedding and life in a foreign land had been giving Fan a fictitious strength, which immediately on her sister's departure deserted her, and left her prostrate upon her bed.

Mother and the remaining sisters nursed her with the tenderest care, and after a time she rallied so far as to be about the house again and drive out occasionally in pleasant weather; but the improvement was only temporary, and before the winter was over it became apparent to all that Fan was passing away to the better land.

To all but Don and Annis. He refused to believe it, and she, with the hopefulness of childhood, was always "sure dear darling Fan would soon be better."

For many weeks the mother shrank from having her fears confirmed; often, as she noted the gravity and sadness of the doctor's face, the question trembled upon her tongue, but she could not bring herself to speak it; but one day, seeing, as she thought, a deeper shade of anxiety upon his face than ever before, she followed him from the room.

"Charlie," she said, in faltering accents, "I must know the truth though my heart break. Tell me, must my child die?"

"Dear mother," he said, taking her hand in his and speaking with strong emotion, "I wish I could give you hope, but there is none; she may linger a month or two, but not longer."

"Oh, how shall I ever tell her!" sobbed the mother; "her, my timid little Fan, who has always been afraid to venture among strangers, always clung so tenaciously to home and mother!"

"I think she knows it," he said, deeply moved. "I have seen it again and again in the look she has given me. And I doubt not God is fulfilling to her the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"May the Lord forgive my unbelief!" she said. "I know that He is ever faithful to His promises."

Returning to the sick-room she found Fan lying with closed eyes, a very sweet and peaceful expression on her face.

Bending over her she kissed the sweet lips, and a hot tear fell on the child's cheek.

Her blue eyes opened wide, and her arm crept round her mother's neck.

"Dearest mother, don't cry," she whispered. "I am glad to go and be with Jesus. You know it says, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm and carry them in His bosom.' I shall never be afraid or timid lying there. Oh, He will love me and take care of me, and some day bring you there too, and father, and all my dear ones; and oh, _how_ happy we shall be!"

"Yes, love," the mother said, "yours is a blessed lot--to be taken so soon from the sins and sorrows of earth. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off.... Thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation, a tabernacle that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed, neither shall any of the cords thereof be broken. But there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of broad rivers and streams.... And the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick: the people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.'"

"Such sweet words," said Fan. "Oh, I am glad Ada has gone to tell the poor heathen of this dear Saviour! How could I bear to die if I did not know of Him and His precious blood that cleanseth from all sin!"

"Dearest child, do you feel quite willing to go?" Mrs. Keith asked, softly stroking her hair and gazing upon her with tear-dimmed eyes.

"Yes, mother, I do now, though at first it seemed very sad, very hard to leave you all to go and lie down all alone in the dark grave. But I don't think of that now; I think of being with Christ in glory, near Him and like Him. Oh, mother, how happy I shall be!"

The door opened, and Mildred came softly in. She bent over Fan, her eyes full of tears, her features working with emotion. She had just learned from her husband what he had told her mother.

"Dear Milly," Fan said, putting an arm about her neck, her lips to her cheek, "has Brother Charlie told you?"

Mildred nodded, unable to speak.

"Don't fret," Fan said tenderly; "I am not sorry, though I was at first. What is dying but going home? Oh, don't you remember how John tells us in the Revelation about the great multitude that stood before the throne and before the Lamb clothed in white robes and with palms in their hands; and how the angel told him, 'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple; and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.

"'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes'?

"Mother," turning to her with a glad, eager look, "may I not hope to be one of them if I trust in Jesus and bear with patience and resignation whatever He sends?"

"Surely, surely, my darling," Mrs. Keith answered, in tremulous tones. "They stand in the righteousness of Christ, and so will all who truly come to Him and trust only in His atoning sacrifice."

"Dear, dear Fan," whispered Mildred, caressing her with fast-falling tears, "I don't know how to give you up. And oh, darling--but I wish I had been a better sister to you!"

"Why, Milly, how could you have been?" Fan said, with a look and tone of great surprise. "I am sure you were always the best and kindest of sisters to me."

"No, not always," Mildred said, sorrowfully; "I used to be very impatient with you at times when you were a little thing given to mischief. But I feel now that I would give worlds never to have spoken a cross word to you."

"Ah, we must often have made a great deal of trouble with our mischievous pranks--Cyril, Don, and I"--Fan said, with a slight smile. "Don't reproach yourself for scolding us, Milly; I am sure we deserved it all, and more."

Mr. Keith was told the doctor's opinion that day, but the rest of the family were left in ignorance of it for the present.

It was from Fan herself Don learned it at length. They were alone together, and he was talking hopefully of the time when she would be up and about again, and he would take her boating on the river, riding or driving, and they would enjoy, as of old, long rambles through the woods in search of the sweet wild flowers that would come again with the warm spring days.

"Dear Don, dear, dear brother!" she said, giving him a look of yearning affection, "do you not know that when those days come I shall be walking the streets of the New Jerusalem, gathering such fruits and flowers as earth cannot yield?"

A sudden paleness overspread his face, his eyes filled, and his lip quivered. "Fan! Fan!" he cried, with a burst of emotion, "it can't be so! You are too young to die, and we can't spare you. You are weak and low-spirited now, but you will feel better when the bright spring days come."

She smiled sweetly, pityingly upon him, softly stroking his hair with her thin white hand as he bent over her.

"No, dear Don, I am not low-spirited," she said. "I am full of joy in the prospect of being so soon with my Saviour. Brother Charlie says it will not be very long now; a week or two, perhaps."

"I can't believe it! I won't believe it!" he groaned. "While there's life there's hope. It can't be that you _want_ to go away and leave me, Fan?" and his tone was gently, lovingly reproachful.

"No," she said, her voice trembling, "it is pain to think of parting from you and the rest, especially our dear, dear mother, and yet I am glad to go to be with Jesus. Oh, how I long to see His face, to bow at His feet, and thank Him 'for the great love wherewith He hath loved us.'"

"But you have a great deal to live for, we all love you so."

"'In thy presence is fulness of joy,'" she repeated; "'at thy right hand there are pleasures forever more.'

"'For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.'

"'Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love His appearing.'

"'For since the beginning of the world men have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O God, beside thee, what He hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him.' O Don, would you keep me from it all?"

"Only for a while," he said, struggling for composure. "It is too dreadful to have you die so young."

"'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from henceforth,'" she repeated. "'My people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places.' O Don, think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, the beautiful river of the water of life, the tree of life with its twelve manner of fruits, the white robes, the golden harps, the crowns of glory; and that there will be no more sickness, or sorrow, or pain; no more sin, no night, no need of a candle to light them, nor of the sun, or the moon, the glory of God and Christ lighting it always.

"Think of Jesus making me to lie down in green pastures and leading me beside still waters."

"You seem just as sure, Fan, as if you were already there," he said, in admiring wonder.

"Yes, Don, because the promise is sure--the promise of Jesus, 'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"

Celestia Ann came in at that moment, carrying a china cup and plate on a small waiter covered with a snowy napkin.

"Here, I've fetched you a bit o' cream toast and a cup o' tea, Fan," she said. "I hope you kin eat it. But, dear me, you're lookin' all tuckered out. I'll bet Don's been a-makin' you talk a heap more'n was good fer ye. Now ye jest clear out, Don, and let's see if I can't be a better nurse."

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Don said gruffly, trying to hide the pain at his heart.

"No, and you haven't," said Fan, gazing lovingly after him as he turned to go; "if I've talked too much, it was my own doing."

Don hurrying down-stairs and into the parlor, which he expected to find empty, came suddenly into the midst of a little group--his father, mother, and Mildred--conversing together in subdued tones.

He was beating a hasty retreat, thinking he had intruded upon a private interview, when his father called him back.

"We have nothing to conceal from you, Don," he said, in tremulous tones, and the lad, catching sight of the faces of his mother and sister, perceived that they had both been weeping. "I suppose you know that--" Mr. Keith paused, unable to proceed.

"Is it about Fan?" Don asked huskily. "Yes, sir; she has just told me. But oh, I can't believe it! We must do something to save her!" he burst out, in a paroxysm of grief.

"What's the matter?" cried Annis, coming dancing into the room in her usual light-hearted fashion, but startled into soberness at sight of Don's emotion and the grief-stricken countenances of the others.

Her mother motioned her to her side, and putting an arm about her, kissed her tenderly, the tears streaming over her face. "Annis, dear," she said, in broken accents, "perhaps we ought not to grieve, Fan is so happy, but it makes our hearts sad to know that very soon we shall see her loved face no more upon earth."

"Mother!" cried Annis, hiding her face on her mother's breast and bursting into wild weeping, "O mother, mother, it can't be that she's going to die! She can never bear to go away from you!"

"Yes, dear, she can," was the weeping rejoinder. "She finds Jesus nearer and dearer than her mother, and how can I thank Him enough that it is so?"

"We have sent for Cyril," Mr. Keith said, addressing Don, and handing him a letter. "He hopes to be with us to-morrow. She could not go without seeing him once more."

A little later Don, left alone with Mildred, asked, "O Milly, is there no hope? no possibility of a favorable change?"

"None so far as man can see," she answered through her tears and sobs. "But with God all things are possible."

"I've been talking with her," he said presently, when he could control his emotion sufficiently to speak; "she told me herself that--that she was--going away. And she seemed so happy, so utterly without fear, that I could hardly believe it was our timid little Fan--always shrinking so from going among strangers."

"Yes," said Mildred, "what a triumph of faith! Her fearlessness is not from any lack of a deep sense of sin, but because she is trusting in the imputed righteousness of Christ. She trusts Him fully, and so her peace is like a river. It continually brings to my mind that sweet text in Isaiah, 'And the work of righteousness shall be peace; and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance forever.'"

And so it was to the very end; the sweet young Christian passed away so calmly and peacefully that her loved ones watching beside her bed scarce could tell the precise moment when her spirit took its flight.

There was no gloom in the death-bed scene, and there seemed little about the grave as they laid her body tenderly down there to rest till the resurrection morn, knowing that the spirit was even then rejoicing in the presence and love of her Redeemer.

Chapter Seventh.

"Heaven, the perfection of all that can
Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony,
Health, beauty: and all these not subject to
The waste of time, but in their height eternal."
--SHIRLEY.

"We have no need to weep for her, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said, softly stroking Elsie's hair as she lay sobbing in his arms, an open letter in her hand.

"No, papa, not for her, I know; but for the others. See, Annis's letter is all blistered with her tears, and she says it seems at times as if her heart would break. And Don; oh, she says Don is almost wild with grief; that he tells her he can hardly bear to be in the house, it is so lonely and desolate without Fan."

"Yes, I have no doubt they miss her sorely; yet time will assuage their grief; they will come to think less of their own loss and more of her blessedness."

Elsie lifted her face and wiped away her tears. "Is it not wonderful, papa," she said, "that Fan, always so timid and retiring, always clinging so to her mother and home, should be so willing and even glad to go?"

"Yes," he said; "it shows what the grace of God can do. She must have been given a very strong sense of her Saviour's love and presence with her as she passed through the valley of the shadow of death. It helps one to stronger faith in the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

Rose, sitting by reading a letter with fast-falling tears, wiped them away at that, and looking up, said, "Let me read you some things that Mildred tells me about her last hours."

"We will be glad to hear them," Mr. Dinsmore answered, and she began:

"'It was the loveliest death-bed scene--no fear, no desire to stay. As I stood beside her, an hour or two before the messenger came, I leaned over her and repeated the words, "The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms."

"'She looked up with the sweetest smile. "Yes," she said, "Jesus is with me, and I am not afraid; He will carry me safely through the river."

"'Mother added: "And to a beautiful home--one of the many mansions He has prepared for His people. You may be sure it is very lovely, very delightful with everything you can possibly desire; for the wealth of the universe is His; He has all power in heaven and in earth; and you, for whom He has been making it ready, are dearer far to His heart than to mine.

"'"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things that God hath prepared for them that love Him."

"'Her look was ecstatic as she listened. "Oh, how happy I shall be!" she exclaimed. "And it will seem only a very little while till you will all join me there."

"'She has brought heaven very near to us all,' Mildred added. 'It seems far more real to me than it ever did before. She has entered into the joy of the Lord, and we cannot mourn at all for her, though our hearts are sore with our own loss.

"'"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." Does He not gather them home with joy and rejoicing to the mansions His love has made beautiful beyond compare for them? I think our little Fan was so dear to Him that He could no longer spare her to us, nor was willing to leave her any longer in this world of sin and suffering. That is our mother's feeling, father's too, I think; and no one could be more resigned, more perfectly submissive, than they are.'"

"Yes, Marcia is a devoted Christian," Mr. Dinsmore said; and, drawing Elsie into a closer embrace, "I feel deeply for her in this sore bereavement."

He was asking himself, as again and again he pressed his lips to his daughter's fair brow, how he could ever endure such a loss.

There had been a steady correspondence between Rose and Mildred, Annis and Elsie, ever since the winter spent at the Oaks by Dr. and Mrs. Landreth and Annis.

Housekeeping cares and discussions in regard to the best manner of rearing their little ones filled no small part of the letters of the two young mothers.

Elsie and Annis wrote of their studies, amusements, and the every-day occurrences in each family.

Thus Annis had learned about the life Elsie and her father led together while Rose was absent, of their journey to Philadelphia when he found himself able to go for his wife and little Horace, the visit there, and the return trip; and Elsie had been kept informed, among other events, of the progress of Fan's sickness; and the letter received to-day had given an account of her death and burial.

"Papa," Elsie asked, lifting her weeping eyes to his face, "what can I say to comfort poor dear Annis?"

"Just what I have been asking myself in regard to Marcia," he remarked, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"And I about Mildred," Rose said, echoing the sigh. "I know of scarcely anything more delicate and difficult than the writing of a letter of condolence."

"It is extremely so in a case where there is any doubt of the happiness of the departed," Mr. Dinsmore said; "but comparatively easy when we know that to the dear one gone to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Also that the mourners are of those who have a good hope through grace that it shall be so with themselves."

"I shall look for Bible words," Elsie said, leaving her father's knee to get her own little copy, lying on a table near at hand.

"Bring it here, and let us look it over together," her father said; and obeying with alacrity, she again seated herself upon his knee.