And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow
alike, as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the
weary mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father
of All. He was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting,
enriching me. Not hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet
pealed, but walking with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in
the garden, at the cool of the day.
August 18, 1891.
Mr. ---- is dead. He died yesterday, holding my hand. The end was
quite sudden, though not unexpected. He had been much weaker of
late, and he knew he could only live a short time. I have been much
with him these last few days. He could not talk much, but there was
a peaceful glory on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in
the Pilgrim's Progress whose call was so joyful. I never suspected
how little desire he had to live; but when he knew that his days
were numbered, he allowed something of his delight to escape him,
as a prisoner might who has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees
his release draw nigh. He suffered a good deal, but each pang was
to him only like the smiting off of chains. "I have had a very
happy life," he said to me once with a smile.
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