“Dear daughter,” said the calm, sweet voice, “do not grieve that I have got my summons home; for dearly, dearly as I love you all, I am often longing to see the face of my Beloved; of Him who hath redeemed me and washed me from my sins in His own precious blood.”

Mr. Travilla from the next room had heard it all.  Hurrying in, he knelt by her side and folded his arms about her.  “Mother,” he said, hoarsely, “oh, is it, can it be so?  Are we to lose you?”

“No, my son; blessed be God, I shall not be lost, but only gone before; so don’t be troubled and sorrowful when you see me suffer; remember that He loves me far better than you can, and will never give me one unneeded pang.

“Well may I bear joyfully all He sends; for your light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; and He has said, ’When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee:  and through the floods, they shall not overflow thee:  when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flames kindle upon thee.’”

“And He is faithful to His promises.  But we will not let you die yet, my mother, if anything in the wide world can save you.  There are more skilful physicians than Dr. Barton; we will consult them——­”

“My son, the disease is one the whole profession agree in pronouncing incurable, and to travel would be torture.  No, be content to let me die at home, with you and this beloved daughter to smooth my dying pillow, our wee precious pet to wile away the pain with her pretty baby ways, and my own pastor to comfort me with God’s truth and sweet thoughts of heaven.”

Elsie looked the question her trembling lips refused to utter.

“I shall not probably leave you soon,” said the old lady.  “It is a slow thing, the doctor tells me, it will take some time to run its course.”

Elsie could scarce endure the anguish in her husband’s face.  Silently she placed herself by his side, her arm about his neck, and laid her cheek to his.

He drew her yet closer, the other arm still embracing his mother.  “Are you suffering much, dearest mother?”

“Not more than He giveth me strength to bear; and His consolations are not small.

“My dear children, I have tried to hide this from you lest it should mar your happiness.  Do not let it do so; it is no cause of regret to me.  I have lived my three-score years and ten, and if by reason of strength they should be four-score, yet would their strength be labor and sorrow.  I am deeply thankful that our Father has decreed to spare me the infirmities of extreme old age, by calling me home to that New Jerusalem where sin and sorrow, pain and feebleness, are unknown.”

“But to see you suffer, mother!” groaned her son.

“Think on the dear Hand that sends the pain—­so infinitely less than what He bore for me; that it is but for a moment; and of the weight of glory it is to work for me.  Try, my dear children, to be entirely submissive to His will.”