Janet's Love and Service Part 26

A momentary shadow pa.s.sed over Marian's face.

"Oh! Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart to leave you all--but I am willing now. G.o.d, I trust, has made me willing. And after a while they will be happy again. But they will never forget me, will they, Graeme?"

"My darling! never!"

"Sometimes I wish I had known--I wish I had been quite sure, when they were all at home. I would like to have said something. But it doesna really matter. They will never forget me."

"We will send for them," said Graeme, through her tears.

"I don't know. I think not. It would grieve them, and I can bear so little now. And we were so happy the last time. I think they had best not come, Graeme."

But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer.

"Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so long to see them,"

and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would think of me as I used to be, than to see me now. No, Graeme, I think I will wait."

In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times.

"It won't be long. And, Graeme--I shall see our mother first--and you must have patience, and wait. We shall all get safe home at last--I am quite, _quite_ sure of that."

A step was heard at the door, and Mrs Snow entered.

"Weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. She saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting.

"Have the bairns come?" asked Menie.

"No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae again. Do you want them home?"

"Oh no! I only wondered why I didna hear them."

The wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence.

"It's no' like spring to-night, Janet," said Menie.

"No, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. But the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again."

"Yes; I hope so," said Menie, softly.

"Are you wearying for the spring, dear?"

"Whiles I weary." But the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, Janet well knew.

"I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. It was long before this time of the year--and it seems long to wait for spring."

"Ay, I mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. You'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary."

Menie made no answer, but a spasm pa.s.sed over the face of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever.

"Janet, when will Sandy come? Have you got a letter yet?"

"Yes; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now."

"Oh! I hope not. I want to see him and your mother. I want them to see me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards."

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, hoa.r.s.ely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. It will rest you, and I'll bide with Menie here."

Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. Not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the March wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. Up and down the snow-enc.u.mbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. Conscious only of one thought, that Menie must die, and that the time was hastening.

Yes. It was coming very near now. G.o.d help them all. Weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. She bowed herself utterly down.

"So let it be! G.o.d's will be done!"

And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. G.o.d gives power to his children to pray--face to face--in His very presence. Giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "I am Thine. Save me." Between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. No foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than Menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places.

She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met Mr Snow's look, so grave in its kindliness.

"Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?"

"No," said Graeme, humbly. "I am going in." But she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand.

"Miss Graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He's a mind to about it?"

"Yes," said Graeme, "I give up. His will be done."

"Amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, Deacon Snow's prayer for her found a place.

She opened the gate and held it till he pa.s.sed through, and then followed him up the path into Hannah's bright kitchen.

"Will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke.

"Well, I guess I'll sit down here. It won't be long before Mis' Snow'll be going along down. But don't you wait. Go right in to your father."

Graeme opened the study-door and went in.

"I will tell him to-night," said she. "G.o.d help us."

Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand.

"Graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen Janet?"

"Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago."

"Poor Janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new t.i.tle. It was always "Mistress Snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and Graeme wondered to-night.

"Has anything happened?" asked she.

"Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her mother is dead."

The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand.