Though earthly sight
was gone away, she beheld again the scenes she had loved from long
years ago! she saw them without a change to dim the old radiant
hues. The long dead were with her, fresh and blooming as in those
bygone days. And death came to her as a welcome blessing, like as
evening comes to the weary child. Her work here was finished, and
faithfully done.
What better sentence can an emperor wish to have said over his bier?
In second childhood (that blessing clouded by a name), she said her
"Nunc Dimittis"--the sweetest canticle to the holy.
"Mother, good-night! Dear mother! bless me once more! I'm very
tired, and would fain go to sleep." She never spoke again on this
side heaven.
She died the day after their return from Liverpool. From that time,
Jem became aware that his mother was jealously watching for some
word or sign which should betoken his wish to return to Mary. And
yet go to Liverpool he must and would, as soon as the funeral was
over, if but for a simple glimpse of his darling. For Job had never
written; indeed, any necessity for his so doing had never entered
his head.
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