[42.1]  . . . One morning when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her and said, "You remember, Ellie, in the Pilgrim's Progress, when Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river?—I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love;—listen—this is the token he seems to bring me,—'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.' I am sure of it, Ellie; I have no doubt of it;—so don't cry for me. You have been my dear comfort, my blessing—we shall love each other in heaven, Ellie."

[42.2] Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again. But she came at last; and went on through all that day as she had done for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would not live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed without his coming; and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she evidently wished and watched for him; and Ellen, whose affection read her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door,—the eye turned toward the window,—the attitude of listening,—grew feverish with her intense desire that she should be gratified.

[42.3] From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that John generally occupied when he was at home; directly over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows toward the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse, were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly out she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the knowledge of what she wished for.

[42.4] It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the little lawn and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields, the trees in the gap lit up, as then, the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there now;—they were scattered. One was away; one a sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight;—one waiting to be gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. [<correspondence?] She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard tonight, near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much;—and there were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up toward them in their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have been shining, thought Ellen;—going on just the same from night to night and from year to year,—as if they never would come to an end. But they will come to an end—the time will come when they stop shining—bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun; that will never end!—never. And in a few years we who were so happy a year ago and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together there,—this will be all over!—And then as she looked, and the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favorite hymn of Alice's came to her remembrance.

[42.5] Ye stars are but the shining dust
  Of my divine abode;
The pavements of those heavenly courts
  Where I shall see my God.

[42.6] The Father of eternal lights
  Shall there his beams display;
And not one moment's darkness mix
  With that unvaried day. [color code]

[42.7] "Not one moment's darkness!" "Oh," thought little Ellen,—"there are a great many here!"—Still gazing up at the bright calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.

[42.8] "And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things have passed away.

[42.9] "And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." [Revelation 22.5, 22.3; John 14.3]. . .

[42.10] The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The sides and tops of the hills looking toward the east were bright with the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between them deep shadows lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at the long reach of ground it screened from his view; stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to the left, between that and the Cat's back [name of a mountain], the rays of the sun streamed through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake, and making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance stand out in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. Now, the air was fresh with the dew and sweet from hayfield and meadow; and the birds were singing like mad all around. There was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen loved all things too well not to notice them even now; she felt their full beauty; but she felt it sadly. "She will look at it no more!" she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought;—"Behold I create new heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended." [Revelation 21.1; Isaiah 60.20]

[42.11] "She is there now," thought Ellen,—"she is happy,—why should I be sorry for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself—Oh, Alice!—dear Alice!"

[42.12] She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with which she was so familiar,—"the days of thy mourning shall be ended;" and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself,—"Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?" she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped.

[42.13] It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness the sound came pealing up.

[42.14] "One—two!"

[42.15] Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.

[42.16] It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention; these are followed after a little pause by a single one if the knell is for man, or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the number of the years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks upon the ear.

[42.17] Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly tolled out, every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound ceased.

[42.18] Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not trust its higher tones,—"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help!" [Psalm 121]

[42.19] How differently that sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world,—on this side everything, on that side nothing.

[42.20] No word was spoken for many minutes.

[42.21] "My dear, Ellen," said her brother softly,—"how came you here?"

[42.22] "I don't know," whispered Ellen,—"there was nobody there—I couldn't stay in the house."

[42.23] "Shall we go home now?"

[42.24] "Oh yes,—whenever you please."

[42.25] But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder [earlier John & Ellen arranged to refer to themselves as brother and sister]; the eyes of both were on the scene before them; the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.

[42.26] "Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love in this world;—that is his meaning—let sorrow but bring us closer to him. Dear Alice is well—she is well,—and if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it,—do we not Ellen?"

[42.27] Ellen put her hand to her face; she thought her heart would break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on—

[42.28] "Think that she is happy;—think that she is safe;—think that she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance,—satisfied with his likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin;—think that sweetly and easily she has got home; and it is our home too. We must weep, because we are left alone; but for her—'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!'" [Revelation 14.13]

[42.29] As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped; but she still kept her hands to her face.

[42.30] "Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother after another silence. She rose up instantly and said yes. But he held her still, and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of endearment which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand they went down the mountain together.

End Chapter 42 > from Chapter 50

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