CHAPTER XXV.

DEATH OF A POSSESSOR.

EARLY the next morning, the young minister called to ascertain whether Mr. Knowles still wished to enter the pulpit.

Frederic hastened to the study, but started back at one view of his father's face.

"It shone like that of an angel," he said afterward.

"Yes," he answered, when the young man's question was put to him. "Yes, I do wish it, but I have thrown aside the sermon I had prepared. Helen has given me a text, and I shall speak of the glories of heaven to the redeemed."

On hearing the church-bell, he made ready as usual, his wife with trembling fingers tying the knot in his white cravat as she had done for fifty years. And then arm in arm they proceeded across the well-beaten path to the house of God.

Never will those present forget the occasion. Leaving his wife at the pew-door, his son offered his stronger arm for support, but he refused aid and walked slowly but firmly up the pulpit steps.

Frederic performed the introductory service, gave out the hymns which his father had selected, offered the first prayer, and then sat down.

When the aged man arose and pronounced his text, scarcely a breath disturbed the intense stillness. It was this: "Who is the King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory."

Never, in the days of manhood's prime, had the utterances of the pastor been so impassioned, his voice so clear and sonorous, his style so pure and elevated, his persuasion so powerful.

After depicting the glories of Christ, as the present ruler and king of the church, he dwelt in the most enrapturing strain upon the future revelation of his glory, when he shall have delivered up the kingdom to God, even the Father; when he shall have put down all rule, and authority and power, and have put all enemies under his feet.

The close, with words of tenderness and love, besought every one of his beloved flock to yield submission to this glorious King, and meet him at the right hand of God. This was solemn and affecting beyond description. Weeping and sobbing were heard from every part of the house, and were only restrained by noticing that the customary prayer at the close of the sermon was omitted, and their dearly loved and venerated pastor was spreading his arms to pronounce the benediction:

"Now may the God of peace which brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ make you perfect in every good work."

A few words were spoken to his son and then Frederic repeated the request that the congregation would unite in singing the words:

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

Some near the pulpit afterward said they saw their pastor's countenance change as he took his seat, but he leaned forward and rested his head on the cushion. When the doxology was finished, he did not move. The congregation slowly left their slips, as if conscious that this was the last time they should hear warning or entreaty from his familiar voice.

Alas! His lips were already sealed in death. While the praises of God were sounding in his ear, his summons came,—"Friend come up higher!"

Wondering at length at his father's prolonged silence, Frederic gently touched his arm. There was no response. Then a dreadful terror seized him, and kneeling down, he looked into his father's face. What did he see there? Death had come and set his seal, but it was death deprived of his terrors; for a countenance so radiant as his when they reverently bore him out of the church, none ever remembered to have seen. It was as if the sound of the archangel's trump had met his ear, and as if his whole soul was entranced with ecstasy as he welcomed the messenger, sent to summon him home.

Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift, the gift of one who has given us victory over death and the grave, even our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

The parsonage, with seventeen acres of ground near it was owned by the good pastor. After the funeral, which was an occasion to be remembered for years, to be dated from and recalled with loving affection, a will characteristic of the writer was found in his desk. It bore date after Frederic's marriage and was as follows:

"I give my soul, redeemed by the blood of Christ from everlasting death, to my Creator.

"I give my body to the worms that will feed upon it, resting on the gracious promise, 'It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption: it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.'

"I give to my beloved wife and my daughter Sybil, all of worldly goods that I have to bestow, assured that He who styles himself the God of the widow, the Father of the fatherless, will never forsake them.

"I give to my beloved Frederic and my beloved daughter Helen and to my other children, a father's love and blessing."

The land near the parsonage was purchased more than fifty years before, at a time when such property was held of little comparative worth. It had gradually risen in value, until now it would command a high price. A new street had been laid out within a few years, the old pastor cheerfully yielding his consent that it be cut directly through his land. This arrangement more than doubled the value of his farm, giving him beautiful sites for houses on both sides.

It was Frederic's proposition that one house lot be sold, and the money put at interest for their immediate necessities. There was no occasion for other change. The farmer, under Sybil's practical training, would till the land and furnish nearly all they needed for their support.

The remainder of the month was passed by the newly wedded pair quietly at the parsonage. All felt it was a privilege to be there where the sound of the father's voice seemed still echoing in the familiar rooms.

But at last other duties called the young pastor away. He went buckling on his harness for his chosen work. He went followed by the prayers of many, that his father's mantle might fall upon him,—that his life experience might be as full of joy, and his death as full of peace.

They went forty miles out of their way to meet Frank in the city. The following letter was the occasion of their visit:—

"DEAR HELEN: I have concluded to take the journey of which I spoke in my last. I have engaged a celebrated geologist to accompany me, and we have provided everything necessary to facilitate our work. I found a piece of ore among some rubbish in Mr. Tracy's sanctum, marked 'lead mine.' My friend declares it a prophet of good for us. Still I do not wish you to be too sanguine. The mine which has swallowed up two thirds of our fortune may prove to be of no value. We expect to start next Monday. I have some painful duties to perform before that, of which I can at present say nothing.

"Your affectionate brother,

"FRANK."

On reaching the city, they drove directly to Mr. Edmond's boarding house. He was out, and it was doubtful when he would return. Much disappointed, they were about to leave a note of farewell for him and hasten to Morrisville by the next train, when the door opened and he entered.

One glance sufficed to convince the visitors that something unusual had occurred.

Frank's face was extremely pale, but there was an expression of satisfaction in his eye for which they could not account.

"You are just in time," he exclaimed, warmly embracing his sister. "There is a chance for you to show yourself a true Christian."

"What is it? Tell me all."

Glancing hurriedly at his watch, Frank threw himself into a chair, exclaiming:

"I must go at twelve, and you will go with me."

"Go where?"

"To the Penitentiary, with Mrs. Tracy. But let me begin my story. I came home the other night, worn and worried with my labors, when my landlady told me there was 'a person' waiting to see me in the parlor. It was Mrs. Tracy, but so changed I should never have recognized her.

"'Perhaps,' she began, 'you will think it strange I should come to you who have lost everything through my husband: but I have no other friend,—at least no one I would like to ask to do so much,—and then,—there is another reason why I think you will do it. You were staying with us, I was passing your door, and I heard you praying, not saying prayers,' she repeated earnestly, 'but praying: and you prayed for him as if you really meant it. If you did mean it, I think you will forgive him and take me to see him.'

"Her request was, as you see, not very intelligible. But her weakened frame, her trembling voice and pallid features so affected me, that I hastened to assure her whatever she required, if it were in my power, I would assist her. I did not calculate upon the effect of my words. She sank down on the floor at my foot, and cried aloud.

"When I had succeeded in partially soothing her, she began the story of her married life, how that little by little their happiness melted away; he, as she invariably called Mr. Tracy, became engrossed in business, writing speeches, etc., until his affection for her seemed wholly gone.

"'It is hard for me to accuse him,' she said hesitating, 'but I'm afraid his kind of religion didn't restrain him from doing whatever he thought for his own interest.'

"At any rate it wasn't of the kind to make him happy. As to his business, he never consulted me, and I never offered any advice. But once I begged him not to annoy Helen with Roswell's attentions. I saw she didn't fancy him, though I think if he could have had a happy home, he would have been a good man. Just before the—the crash,' she said, hesitating, 'he came up to my chamber and put this into my hands.'

"'"There Cynthy," he said, "I've made over this house and fifty thousand dollars to you. If anything happens to me in business, we can live on that."

"'When I heard what had been done, I was frightened, and if I could have got my husband out of the Penitentiary, I wont deny I should have kept the fifty thousand and gone off with him. But since it is as it is, I feel that I can't keep it, and so I brought it to-day.

"'"If he doesn't scorn me. If his prayer was an earnest one," I said to myself, "and he forgives my husband, I'll give it to him." Here it is!'

"I read it, not without emotion, of course, and then I explained to her that the paper wasn't worth a straw to her. But it was worth thirty thousand dollars to me, and fifteen thousand to young Quincy, her husband's other ward. I went to a memorandum book where I had noted down the amount of stock in this bank and that, which had mysteriously disappeared, and I showed her that on her paper the very same bank stock was made over to her for their joint use. I told her too, that Quincy's lawyer had obtained a clue to this very document, and that whenever she went to draw the money, he would pounce upon her as an accomplice in the fraud.

"Poor woman, I really pitied her more than I can express.

"'I knew nothing about it, nothing at all,' she repeated, tearfully. 'I'm so glad I didn't keep it. I never cared to be rich.'

"'Now,' I said, 'tell me how I can help you?'

"She hid her face in her handkerchief and wept.

"'They tell me,' she said, 'that he is not as he was, that he is not a proper subject for the Penitentiary. If you went with a physician, perhaps they would let him out. I'll promise to take care of him. He can't hurt anybody now. I'll work and support him.'

"I'm afraid that will be impossible,' I answered, 'but I will try. I'll see the physician who attends the prisoners, at once, and do all I can for you.'

"She wrung my hand at parting. 'I believe it,' she exclaimed. 'I believe what our minister said once,—

"'"There is a difference between professing religion and possessing it."

"''Tisn't every professor has the right sort. When I heard your prayer, I thought maybe yours was the sort the minister meant, that it might be a support in time of need. I know 'his' didn't help him.'"

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