“I wish you could see yourself, papa, you look all golden and beautiful.  I am sure the angels in heaven look just as you do now.”

Her father smiled.  “It will soon pass away from me, Dora, but I can imagine your mother standing behind those lovely clouds and smiling down upon us with this golden glory always upon her face.”

As the Major said, it did pass away very soon; his face grew pale, and shone no longer; the golden light faded from the sky and the shades of night stole on.  The Major rose, and Dora followed him rather sadly.  The beautiful illumination had passed too quickly.

“We shall stand again in this glory, my child, nay, in a far more beautiful one,” said her father consolingly, “when we are all together again, your mother and you and I, where there will be no more parting and the glory will be everlasting.”

As they climbed up the high staircase to say good night to Uncle and Aunt, the latter awaited them on the landing, making all sorts of silent signs of alarm and distress, but she did not utter a sound until she had them safely within the sitting room.  Then, having softly closed the door, she broke forth complainingly,

“How can you make me so uneasy, dear brother?  I have been dreadfully anxious about you.  I imagined all kinds of shocking accidents that might have happened, and made you so late in returning home!  How can you be so heedless as to forget that it is not safe for you to stay out after sunset.  Now I am sure that you have taken cold.  And what will happen, who can tell?  Something dreadful, I am certain.”

“Calm yourself, I beg you, dear Ninette,” said the Major soothingly, as soon as he could get in a word.  “The air is so mild, so very warm, that it could not possibly harm anybody, and the evening was glorious, perfectly wonderful.  Let me enjoy these lovely summer evenings on earth as long as I can; it will not be very long at the farthest.  What is sure to come, can be neither delayed nor hastened much by anything I may do.”

These words, however, although they were spoken in the quietest possible tone, called forth another torrent of reproach and lamentation.

“How can you allow yourself to speak in that way?  How can you say such dreadful things?” cried the excited woman over and over again.  “It will not happen.  What will become of us all; what will become of—­you know what I mean,” and she cast a meaning glance at Dora.  “No, Karl, it would be more than I could bear, and we never have more trouble sent to us than we can bear; I do not know how I should live; I could not possibly endure it.”

“My dear Ninette” said her brother quietly, “Do not forget one thing,

    “’Thou art not in command,
      Thou canst not shape the end;
     God holds us in his hand: 
      God knows the best to send.’”

“Oh, of course, I know all that well enough.  I know that is all true,” assented Aunt Ninette, “but when one cannot see the end nor the help, it is enough to kill one with anxiety.  And then you have such a way of speaking of terrible things as if they were certain to come, and I cannot bear it, I tell you; I cannot.”