XII.

"God is in the orient, God is in the Occident; In the northern, southern lands, Rests the peace of his own hands." --GOETHE.

Let us return again to our acquaintances by the sea-shore. The sea rolls on in eternal change as before, the days following one another in its ebb and flow; and a day will come which to one of the dwellers there, shall be the last.

Captain Nielsen, the old traveler, stands this morning in his usual place. He has grown older, and he gazes with increasing solicitude upon Ingeborg, his sweet daughter, the solitary jewel that remains to him. His wife and three lovely children, years agone, wandered pale and wan, with hectic flush upon their faces, until one after another had passed away and been carried to the silent church-yard. That was long ago, and little Ingeborg knew nothing about them except what her old nurse, Johanna, had told her. The happy child did not miss them; but she often spoke of them, and believed they were in heaven. Once, during a violent storm, she had been looked for and found on the beach, unwilling to return home. "O, let me go! When it lightens, the heavens open, and I will look in to see my mother and sisters!" Thus she seemed to live with the dead whom she had never known. She was her father's darling, but was left much alone.

After every hemorrhage she declined perceptibly. "She will yield to it," her father thought; but as the days and years passed, the small, wan face, the hectic flush, the brilliant eye, all reminded him of those who had gone before. Must the father part with his last child?

He had hoped for Wulf's return with skill acquired at the great Berlin colleges, to heal his daughter. But Wulf tarried long, and this year did not return home at all. Then the captain went to Hamburg to consult an eminent physician there. "I ought to see your daughter," said the doctor; "but from what you have told me I think she should be taken to a milder climate. Could you not find it convenient to pass the Winter at Cairo?"

Why not? Captain Nielsen had abundant financial means and was accustomed to travel. It was entirely feasible. Indeed it had seemed strange to remain so long in this quiet haven, away from the bustling world. So he immediately began to make his arrangements at Hamburg for the journey, and a few days later returned home.

He has just made his plans known to Ingeborg. She scarcely realizes them at first. Once she might have been eager to go; but now her head droops. "O father, is it really necessary? We have no friends there; but that is no matter."

"Don't be foolish, darling. An old seaman like me doesn't need friends to acquaint him with strange places. You have spoiled me here, and I ought to go East again."

Then Ingeborg began to realize what she should lose. "I can not live without the sea, or Mother Esther. They will both miss me so much."

"Ah, what is that to your health?"

Ingeborg was silent. What made the journey most undesirable to her she would reveal to no one. In fact, she scarcely desired to be well again. Heaven, with its blessedness, seemed as near and certain to her as the Christ-gift tree from an open door to the children in an adjoining room. And now she was even filled with regret that she must wait still longer. She rested her head upon her hands, and all the glories of the New Jerusalem passed through her mind. Here the sky was gray, full of sin and clouds; there all was brightness and purity and beauty, and her young heart went out in longings for that home of rest and peace. Then another picture presented itself to the weary child. Here was her old father, by whom she loved to be, and must remain. No, no! she would henceforth fix her eyes upon the earth. Continually beholding the beaming splendor of eternity made the present, with its duties, grow obscure and worthless.

"Father, when shall we start?" she asked, with soft voice.

"Every thing is ready, my dear child, and we shall start in a fortnight. Johanna will care for the house in our absence, and we must begin to consider what to take with us and what to leave behind."

As her father seemed unusually wearied, Ingeborg brought him a pillow, and said, lovingly:

"Won't you take a little sleep, dear father? You have not been accustomed to travel, and arrived home so late last night."

"Well, darling, I don't usually sleep in the mornings; but I will indulge myself to-day for I am very tired. But I shall sleep regularly when we get to Egypt, God willing."

Ingeborg was passing lightly from the room when she heard her name called:

"Dear, you have not read to me for several evenings, and I can't go to sleep so well without it. I missed it so much in Hamburg. Read me something."

Ingeborg opened her Bible, and read from the twenty-first chapter of Revelation the following words:

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth are passed away; and the sea is no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of the throne saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he shall dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God; and he shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more; neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain, any more: the first things are passed away. And he that sitteth on the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he saith, Write: for these words are faithful and true."

"Thank you, thank you, my child. Now go; I am so tired," murmured the father.

Some minutes later Ingeborg looked into the room, and her father was asleep. Then she went over to Mother Esther's to tell her about the journey. The old mother shook her head.

"My child, it doesn't seem right to me. I think we ought to stay where the Lord places us. Your father is old and feeble, and you are young and weak. What if any thing should happen to either of you?"

Ingeborg was also fearful, but she replied:

"You must not talk so to me. God will go with us. It is all decided and can not be changed."

Then Mother Esther silenced her doubts, and gave the young girl all kinds of advice. Ah! she had never left this spot; what did she know of this hot Egypt? But Ingeborg listened, and promised to be very careful of herself and her father. As she passed out of the house and saw the sea sparkling, it seemed as though she should never be able to part with this old friend.

But the child was already separated from her oldest friend. When Ingeborg returned and entered her father's room, he was still sleeping; but his head had fallen, and she went to adjust the pillow. Her hand trembled, for the face she touched was icy cold. Looking more closely, she was seized with a spasm of terror.

"Johanna! Johanna!" she cried.

The old nurse came quickly, and uttered a loud shriek. Captain Nielsen was dead! He had taken that long journey whence none ever return. After Ingeborg had recovered from the pain of the first shock, she felt strange and solemn. There before her lay, lifeless, he who only a few hours previously had talked cheerfully about his future plans, and who had the strongest love and tenderest care for his only child. Stiff, motionless, cold--O, how cold! But Ingeborg looked less upon the shell--she would gladly have seen where the soul tarried. Once only, when a child, she had been present at the death of a person, and had imagined heaven's door would open in the separation of soul and body, and she might be permitted to catch a glimpse therein. But the great secret had passed over her, on the threshold of which she stood so ready. She looked at her own transparent hands, and said joyfully: "I shall soon follow." How softly her father must have slept away! He had passed through the eternal gates, his last thoughts upon the New Jerusalem, only to awaken to find himself there!

Poor little Ingeborg! and you are still here. He desired to travel with you, why did he not take you with him?

Ingeborg folded her hands: "Dear Lord, what shall I do here? Behold, I am alone; come thou and help me!"

Ah! poor, weary child! Thy father's life-work is ended; therefore he can rest; but yours is not yet finished.

Every body was astonished to hear of Captain Nielsen's sudden death. But no idle talk was indulged over his body. The lowly dwellers by the sea were earnest, and they looked upon the frail child with a sympathy far-reaching and sincere. "Our life hangs upon a thread, but God holds the thread," said Mother Esther.

Ingeborg bowed. Her life's thread lay in the same hand, who knew what was best for her, and she could lovingly say: "Thy will be done."

"I would gladly go in this way," continued Mother Esther; "no lingering illness. How is it with you, my brother?" she said, turning to the body; but the lips remained closed, and she added softly: "I shall soon know."

Time passed. Ingeborg watched the sea dreamily, and saw the waves come and go. Whither did they go? Rolled they to eternity? Why did they not take the sick child with them, when she longed to be landed at the port of Eternal Life? Ingeborg did not go to Egypt. What should she do there?

Old Johanna took faithful care of her, and every thing went along smoothly in the little house. Yes; it was very quiet and lonely in the world. Wulf had been absent three years, and Ingeborg had not seen him for two years. Arnold Von Kahring had given her tidings of how Wulf passed his time--pleasing, displeasing, singing, and dancing. He had also intimated that Wulf was frequently criticised for his behavior. This he had not done intentionally; but the way and manner sank deeply into Ingeborg's heart.

"If Wulf does wrong, it is the wicked people at Berlin who are to blame. He is not bad--no, never, I am sure," she would reply.

One night Old Peter knocked at Ingeborg's door, and said: "Come quickly, Frau Ericksen is dying."

While the young girl had begged for the privilege of being with Mother Esther when such an event occurred, when the summons came her blood ceased to circulate and her limbs trembled.

But it was not death that had approached the old mother's home. A stroke of paralysis had occurred during the night; her peculiar breathing had awakened Karen, and now all stood around her, anxious and powerless.

At last the doctor arrived. He declared that there was no immediate danger, but was unable to tell when the stroke might return. It was possible she might lie in this condition for many years. Her entire right side was paralyzed, rigid as marble. With foot and arm helpless, mouth drawn, and partial vision only, she could scarcely utter inarticulate sounds. But her mind was clear and she was perfectly conscious of all that was happening around her. When the physician said she might linger for years, a shadow fell across her wrinkled face, and her eyes filled with tears. How different from what she had prayed and hoped! It is a terrible affliction when a woman of her active nature is obliged to lie passive and helpless.

Karen undertook to nurse her mother with great fidelity. But the demands of the business and the house must receive attention. Therefore it happened that Ingeborg sat for hours long by the bedside. She was happy that finally she could be useful to some one. Karen was enabled to work without, as the mother was in excellent hands.

Poor Karen! Her sky was not always bright. Martin had been absent three years, and nothing had been heard of him. Even though he were a poor writer, he might have found an opportunity to send one letter. Besides, his father was rather proud, and no doubt would prefer his son to marry a richer girl, although Karen, with her amiable disposition and chest-linen, was on no account to be despised. But now a sick mother was no agreeable addition to the dowry; but he felt sure Karen would fulfill her duty right and left until death. What could be done? If Martin were only here!

Meanwhile Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg had a lonely, quiet time. True, one only heard the latter's soft, low voice in response to Mother-Esther's glances of expression which were so perfectly understood. Both enjoyed the sacred grove of the Psalms, and, like fresh waters, these old songs rustled through the shade. Beyond it they saw with clear vision the heavenly city, when Ingeborg repeated:

"Jerusalem the golden! With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed; I know not, O, I know not, What social joys are there, What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare!

With jasper glow thy bulwarks; Thy streets with emerald blaze; The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays; Thine ageless walls are bonded, With amethyst unpriced; Thy saints build up its fabric, And the corner-stone is Christ."

But it is only sweet to die when the world is no longer attractive, when there is nothing either for us to live or suffer for.

Ingeborg had written to Wulf of his mother's illness. He had replied affectionately, and expressed his grief, but could give no hope of recovery. He rejoiced that Karen was able to give her so much attention (for Ingeborg had not mentioned herself), and hoped during the year to pass his final examination and to visit his home, when he should be able to assist in the care of his mother. He had spent a year at Jena, and was once more at Berlin; but of his plans, desires, hopes, fears, and the struggles of his heart, he said nothing. How could he? These people by the sea belonged to another class, whose aims and necessities were other than his.

But love sharpens the understanding. Both women avoided each other's glance after the letter had been read. Neither would betray her apprehensions. Ingeborg sighed. She wished she might rescue Wulf from danger, even as he had once saved her life. Now he was in danger, and here sat only a weak, fragile creature!