Girl opposite her dying; mother’s only child.

In men’s ward little boy (14) died too.

Splendid meeting this evening; packed within and without(!).

Service of song; crowd half an hour before time; singing can be heard all through camp.  May many a sad and weary heart have found in our singing a balm for the aching, longing heart.

Now for bed—­glorious bed!

* * * * *

Wednesday, September 25.—­Deathbed; sorrowful topic to write upon, and yet why shirk it?  Let me attempt what I have never before done—­a description of a deathbed.  It is but human to hasten over the tragic scenes of life, but this evening I want to tarry.

Something prompted me to make early visit to the hospital, so went before breakfast.  In first ward went straight to little Mita Duvenhagen’s bed, and her I found very bad—­struggling hard to breathe; so young and yet so bitter a suffering!

From there called by Mrs. Van den Berg to new ward, to come quickly, as Lenie was dying.  I went, and when I entered saw that God was going to take her away.  Let me not attempt to describe her angelic little face of marble white, her beautifully chiselled nose, and her sweet little mouth!  Silently we knelt around her bedside—­mother, nurse, and I. Of her beautiful blue eyes I have said nothing, for they were closed—­the lids gently drawn, and the lashes trying hard to kiss the soft smooth cheeks.  “O God, come and help us!  O Saviour, come and take Thy place beside her bed—­hold her hand—­take her in Thy tender arms and press her to Thy bosom!  Bear her, Saviour, where Thou wilt, for with Thee she is safe.  Comfort our hearts and give us to bend our heads in humble resignation—­Thy will be done.  Amen!”

“Lenie, Lenie, Lenie, mij kind, jou mammie is hier bij jou, en Jezus ook is hier om jou hand te hou—­moenie bang wees nie, mij kind” ("My child, your mother is here, near you, and Jesus too is here to hold your hand—­don’t be afraid, child").  Under her weary eyelids she looked at us, and a large tear gathered in her left eye.  It glistened like a diamond for a moment, and then became the possession of the sorrow-stricken mother.  Then we were silent and watched.  Slowly and gently the lids opened—­now again we could look into those clear blue orbs.  Wider—­wider—­and still wider they grow—­uplifted, right away beyond the three forms of clay before her.  See how the pupils dilate—­they seem to swamp the blue!  And so for a few short moments they remain.  It was a gaze right beyond us to—–­ what!  Will it be old-fashioned to suggest “Angels,” perhaps!  Until I grow wiser I shall hold fast to Angels.  O, the mystery of the Unknown!

And slowly, gently those lids sink once more to rest—­to rest indeed—­for her spirit has fled.  Peace, perfect peace!

How passing strange, how majestic in its simplicity, how weird in its tragic stillness—­the passing of a Soul—­the disunion of Body and Spirit!  Is this Death?  Then may I never fear its shadow!