Aunt Judith Part 17

"Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give; The world is very lovely. Oh, my G.o.d, I thank thee that I live."

Let us take one more look at them ere we close the book and lay it aside reverently and tenderly as we would the folded page in a closing life.

It is a cold, wintry evening. Outside the wind is sweeping up and down the streets, wailing like a soul in pain. The rain is dashing against the windowpanes, and beating with wild, ungovernable fury on those exposed to the disturbing elements. But inside warmth and comfort reign supreme. The oak parlour is all ablaze with light, and the laughter and merriment filling the whole room betoken the happy, genial spirits of the occupants. Let us see if we still recognize one and all--if six years have wrought no ravages or particular change on those we knew in their happy childhood days.

Close by the fire, lying on a luxuriously-cushioned couch, is a young lady, whose pale, thin face bears traces of weary pain. Yet the dark eyes are bright and smiling, and the voice has still its own merry ring, which plainly betrays the old Winnie of bygone days. Surely Aunt Judith's words are coming true, and she is learning beautiful lessons in the school of pain; for the pale face shines with a peaceful calm, and the words which fall from her lips are the words of one who has been in the furnace of affliction and come forth tried as silver.

Seated near on a low stool, with legs stretched forth in lazy comfort, is d.i.c.k, newly home from a long, perilous voyage. He is very much improved and changed, but in the gallant young officer one can still discover traces of the bluff sailor boy whose kind, honest heart won for him the love and friendship of all with whom he a.s.sociated. He has continued to rise steadily in his profession, and Mr. Blake is proud of his scapegrace son at last.

A little further away, at the other side of the fire, sits Edith, smiling and light-hearted as ever, and with the same fair, sweet face; but a plain golden band, circling one white finger, proclaims that the gay, laughing girl has found a woman's true place in the world, and that the grave, gentlemanly captain has won his suit in the end.

And now we have come to the last occupant of the room--a young lady, seated in very unladylike fashion on the rug, and so little changed that in the fresh bright countenance we have no difficulty in recognizing our old friend Nellie Latimer. She is spending a few weeks in town with Winnie, and if report speaks true, there is a possibility that in the dim future Winnie may find a sister in her old school-mate of past years.

"How nice and cosy we all look!" she is saying in her blithe young voice; "one values light and warmth on a night like this. Hush! do you hear the wind? I pity those on the sea to-night."

d.i.c.k looks grave. "Ah, Nellie," he replies quietly, "pity hearts that are watching and praying in their lonely homes."

"The wind," says Winnie in a low whisper, "always makes me think of Aunt Judith in her quiet grave. I suppose it is a stupid feeling, but I hate the thought of the rain dripping and making a wet, wet sod above her. I should like the sunshine to be always lingering on her quiet resting-place."

The laughter has died out of each face, and eyes become a little misty, showing the dead friend is still near and dear to the hearts of those who loved her.

"Dear Aunt Judith," murmurs Nellie sadly, "we never realized how good she was till we lost her. Every one with whom she came in contact seems to have felt the benefit of her influence; and I--why, I owe her more than I can ever tell."

"I think we may all say that, Nell," adds d.i.c.k. "It was she who first inspired me with a reverence for all women, and helped to make me what I am now."

"As for me," says Winnie with a sad, sweet smile, "she showed me the way wherein I should walk, and taught me the great beauty of the Christ-life."

Then Edith's clear voice broke in: "And I--I have learned from Miss Latimer lessons that will help me throughout all my life. She has been, I think, as an angel of light to us all, and I shall never forget what we owe to her goodness and love."

"I have always been going to ask some of you girls," says d.i.c.k, "if Aunt Judith knew she was likely to die in such a sudden manner. Every time I came home I had that question on my mind, and yet never managed to ask it."

Nellie replied: "Oh yes! and Aunt Debby knew also. That was why Aunt Judith lived so humbly and simply. She felt she was the mainstay of the family,--that both Aunt Debby and Aunt Meg looked to her for their livelihood; and so she strove hard to win and lay aside money, with the hope that if she were called away suddenly there would be sufficient to keep them snugly and comfortably after her death. She suffered from severe paroxysms of pain at intervals, and each attack left her weaker and feebler. Then, besides, she seemed to have had some great sorrow, though Aunt Debby never told me what it was. Oh! they missed her dreadfully at first; but since they left Dingle Cottage and came to settle down beside my father, they have been more cheerful."

"Do you like having them so near you?" inquires Edith; and Nellie answers truthfully,--

"I like being beside Aunt Debby, she helps us so much; but Aunt Meg is very trying at times."

At that moment Captain Inglis, who has been closeted with Mr. Blake in the library, enters, and then the conversation changes. The old school-days are talked over, pranks and punishments described amidst shouts of laughter; and by-and-by the talk drifts on to Ada Irvine and the prize essay.

"Have you ever heard of or seen Ada lately?" asks d.i.c.k curiously. "I suppose she is quite a young lady and a great beauty now."

"Agnes Drummond called the other day," replies Winnie quietly, "and said she had met Ada last week at a friend's house. It seems she is just as haughty and proud as ever; but, O d.i.c.k, I am sure you will be sorry when I tell you that all her beauty is gone. The whole face is completely marred by small-pox, which she caught when abroad with her father."

"Serves her jolly well right," cries d.i.c.k, the old man in his nature coming to the front. "A girl who can act as she acted deserves a righteous punishment. I don't suppose she has ever eaten humble pie to you girls yet?"

"No, and never will," puts in Nellie. "She persists to this day in saying Win gained Mr. Corbett's medal through Aunt Judith's help, and that I never learned a single lesson without a.s.sistance."

"Hark!" says Captain Inglis, "there is the carriage.--Edith, my dear, it is time we were going home." So the merry party breaks up, and soon the silence of midnight settles over the city.

Slowly the wind lulls itself to rest; the storm is over; the rain-clouds sweep back from the sky, and the stars gleam forth with softened brilliancy over the sleeping world; while the fair, placid moon, rising from a mist of vapours, shines down on the sodden earth, and lingering near a quiet churchyard lays her tearful beams, fondly, tenderly, on a peaceful grave marked only by a marble cross and the simple words,--"Aunt Judith."

THE END.