CHAPTER IX.

CHRISTINA.

THREE months before this, two visitors were sitting in one of the large houses in South Bay. The blinds were down, and the room, though large and handsome, seemed dull and cheerless.

"Dear father," said the girl, addressing the old man tenderly, "you will feel better for a cup of tea."

"No, my dear, I think not," he answered quietly.

"To please me, dear father," she still persisted.

And the old man allowed her to persuade him into drinking half a cup, but he would not eat or come to the table.

Christina ate a slice of bread and butter mechanically, and swallowed her tea, and had an almost guilty feeling when she felt less unutterably desolate than she had done half an hour ago.

Her mother had died early in the afternoon. As yet the real desolation had not swept over her. That would be, perhaps, when she had ministered all she could to her bereaved father, and came to lay her head on her pillow at night. Yes; the sorrow must wait till then.

She seated herself again by the arm-chair, and softly stroked her father's hand. She felt anxious about him. He had given way to no sorrow, had not, broken down in any way; but she thought he looked exceedingly pale, and there was a gravity about him which she did not quite like.

He soon took her hand in his, with a mute intimation that he did not wish to be stroked. And after a long silence, he said gravely, "Christina, my child, I do not think it will be long ere I follow your mother home."

"Dear father," she answered deprecatingly, "do not say so; you will feel better soon, I hope."

"I do not say it lightly, my dear; nor can I tell you why I think so; but I feel assured of it."

Christina's heart gave a strange leap, and she felt powerless to say anything to break the spell, as it were, of her father's words. It was like walking with her eyes open over a frightful precipice. She shuddered.

"My dear child," he continued quietly, "you have been a good daughter to us—God bless you!—now I want to leave a few directions with you in case it should be as I think it will. You will have enough to live on; plenty for you, and a friend to take care of you. Christina, I should like you to ask your aunt Mary to come and live with you. Promise me."

Christina, even in that bitter hour, felt a certain repugnance to comply with her father's wish in this respect; but how could she hesitate? She would have time to talk it over with him another day—not now; oh, not now!

So she promised. "Anything you wish, my precious father!" she said, with anguish in her voice.

"I do wish it; I know it will be best—for a few years at any rate, my child."

They sat on in deep silence for some time longer. Then he spoke again; but this time the voice was not grave and authoritative, but loving and simple: "Christina, your mother and I have loved each other for forty years. We have never been separated for a single day; we have walked hand in hand all our pilgrimage; she has gone just a little way in front, and I am following. My dear, let no one think I am following her. Oh, blessed, blessed truth!

"'He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.'

"It is Jesus we follow, my dear. He has taken her this afternoon across the water, and He tells me He thinks it is time for me to go too. But if He did not, my dear, I should have to wait; yes, wait patiently for the Lord.

"My child," he said again, clasping her hand tightly, "you must wait for the Lord! I had hoped we should all welcome Him together when He came; but He knows best!"

As the room darkened, Christina's desolation crept over her. She still believed her dear father would feel better to-morrow; but, oh, why could not she raise her head and trust in her God? What was this anguish at her heart which made her shudder to think she should never, never hear her mother's voice again? All the tenderness that she had received from her, all her own waywardness in past times, all the sins of her youth, flashed over her mind.

"Closed for ever," she said to herself; "that book can never be opened again."

The room grew darker still. She ventured to chafe the fingers of the loved hand she held. He did not respond; and she rose to light the gas, feeling for the first time that perhaps she ought to speak to the doctor about her father's low condition. But the fingers did not yield as usual to her movement, and, terrified, she called him over and over again. Then she stooped and kissed his forehead; it was cold; and at that moment she knew that he too had been safely carried through the dark river, and landed on the other side.

When supper-time had passed, and the maid at last entered the room, the sight that met her eyes remained printed on her memory for many a long day. In the arm-chair sat the dear old gentleman who had won all their hearts, and kneeling before him, with her arms tightly clasped round his neck, and her face buried in his breast, lay his daughter. Worn out by long watching, spent with grief, and finding comfort for a few moments in her passionate embrace, Christina had fallen asleep.

The people at the lodgings dared not wake her, but sent quickly for the doctor, who lived near. He soon came; and in a moment whispered that "their care must be for her."

A small mattress was lifted in; her clinging arms were tenderly loosened, and she was laid upon it, and borne into the next room.

"He was all I had left," she murmured, as her head touched the pillow—"all but Jesus."

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