1

IT was a sight one does not get every day―no, nor once in many―a little child―I had almost said an infant, though that would not have been strictly correct. She was lying in bed, in a room where there was little furniture―little of what men would call comfort―a calm, pale face, surrounded by a close, simple cap. Dark circles round the eyes seemed to tell of approaching dissolution to the frame; but such a stillness, such an expression of repose, I have seldom, if ever, witnessed. It did one good to be there to breathe the atmosphere of such a presence; for there was deep, solid peace in that young heart―no cloud, as far as one could discern. She had been singing, as I had heard previously from her mother―singing more than once, out of the fullness of her happiness. That poor, bowed down mother, tried by the sickness of three of her children at the same time, surely this was to her a cup of mercy in the midst of her affliction, could she have seen it clearly.
But how often is it that the richest mercies strike the heart but faintly under circumstances of heavy trial. We see not, it may be, the hand that holds the cup, or we forget, or fail to appreciate, the love of the heart that guides the hand. Faith in the blessed Saviour of poor lost sinners of the human family, is a precious gift of God, and this poor mother had it, question less, underneath all her sorrow; but how simple, how pure, how effortless it shone in the little one I sat by the side of the bed in silence for a moment, looking at the interesting face―a comely face it had been, evidently, in its brief day―almost fearing to disturb that tranquil mind by even a word. When I spoke, it was to ask, ― “Is Jesus precious to you?”
“Yes” (simply and at once); I do not wish to get better, sir.”
“How long have you been happy?”
“About five months.”
A leaf of “The Silent Comforter” was unfolded just where her eye could take in the large letter texts, at the foot of her bed. She directed my attention to it in words that showed her enjoyment of the passages she had been reading.
I asked her if she suffered pain.
“Yes” (as though she was suffering then). “There is no pain in heaven.”
I think it was Revelation 21:4 that occurred to me on saying this. She assented, and I afterward repeated another text from the same wondrous book, 7:17: “The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
“You will soon see that blessed Saviour whose brow was crowned with thorns, whose blood was shed for you.”
“Yes.
“The Lord bless you, dear child.”
It was a brief interview, but who shall tell its value? I mean, to me. We talk of influence; and surely it is a subject of immense importance. What a book could be written on it if one had the ability. I thought and said something of this kind, many years ago, to one who had long been in the school of Christ; and more than once lately has this thought occurred to me of penning what I could concerning it. Not that one can hope to do more than touch the margin of so wide a theme. One Mind alone, the Infinite, can fully measure it; but if permitted to glean a little in His field-and surely the universe belongs to Him — who would not like to be a learner, aye, and a laborer too?