Whatever comes, God sends; and what He sends to His own He sends in love, not in anger. He has not left you to doubt that, surely?”

“Oh, no; I am sure of that. I have seen that it has been in love that He has dealt with us hitherto.” And in a moment she added, a bright smile lighting up her pale face as she spoke:

“And I think I can count on a place prepared for me at last by my Saviour; but, for my children’s sakes, I would like to wait a while. I would like to take them with me when I go.”

“It may be that one of them will get there before you,” said her sister. “He knows best, and will send what is best for His own.”

“Yes, I know it,” said Mrs Elder, in a startled voice, as she turned to look at the pale face of her boy, now almost death-like in the quietness of sleep. The silence was long and tearful; and then she added, as if unconscious of the presence of another:

“So that we are all guided safely to His rest at last, it matters little though the way be rough. ‘I will trust, and not be afraid.’”

Long after the tired children slept, the sisters sat conversing about many things. Not about the future. Firm as was their trust in God, the future seemed dark indeed, and each shrank from paining the other by speaking her fears aloud. Of her husband Mrs Elder spoke with thankfulness and joy, though with many tears. He had known and loved the Saviour, and had died rejoicing in His salvation. She had prayed that God would give her submission to His will as the end drew near;—and He had given her not only submission, but blessed peace; and no trouble, however heavy, should make her distrust His love again.

Had her husband been cut off in the midst of his days, without warning, she must have believed that it was well with him now. But, in the memory of the time before his death, the blessedness of his present state seemed less a matter of faith than of sure and certain knowledge. There could be no gloom, either in the past or the future, so thick but the light of that blessed assurance might penetrate it. In the darkest hours that had fallen on her since then (and some hours had been dark indeed), it had cheered and comforted her to think of the last months of his life. It was, in truth, the long abiding in the land of Beulah, the valley and the shadow of death long past, and the towers and gates of the celestial city full in sight.

“No; whatever may come upon us now,” she added humbly, “nothing can take away the knowledge that it is well with him.”

Through the whole of the long history, given with many tears, Mrs Elder never spoke of the poverty that had fallen upon them, or of her own ill-remunerated toil. His last days had been days of comfort, undisturbed by any apprehension with regard to the future of his wife and children; for the stroke which deprived them of the last remnant of their means did not fall till he was at rest.

The candle had long since sunk in the socket, and they were sitting in the darkness, which the moonlight, streaming in through the small attic window, only partially dispelled. Not a sound but the soft breathing of the sleeping children, and the hum of voices from the city below, broke the stillness of the pause which followed. Each was busy with her own thoughts. The prevailing feeling in Mrs Blair’s heart was gratitude, both for her dead brother and her living sister’s sake. That his last days had been days of such peace and comfort, that his trust in Christ had been so firm, and his hope of happiness so sure, was matter for fervent thanksgiving. Nor were the humble resignation and patient faith of his wife less a cause of rejoicing to her. She felt rebuked for her own fears and faithlessness as the narrative went on, and she thanked God for the love that had been so mercifully mingled in the bitter cup that had been given them to drink.

Long after her sister was sleeping by her side did Mrs Blair lie awake, revolving in her mind some possible plan for finding a home for the widow and her children in the country, for that none of them could long endure such a life as they had lately been living was only too evident.

It seemed to her that she had never felt her poverty till now. Bitterly did she regret her inability to help them. From the abundance that had blessed her youth and middle age a mere pittance had been saved, scarcely enough to maintain herself, and altogether insufficient to enable her to gratify her benevolent feelings by doing for them as she wished. She had removed from her early home to a little hamlet among the hills, and had taken up her abode in a cottage scarcely better than a mountain shieling; and there the last few years had been passed. She had opened a school for the children of the cottagers, happy in being useful in this way to those whom she could now assist in no other.

To this home, poor as it was, she longed to take the widow and children of her brother. Many a plan she considered for eking out her scanty means that she might do so; and the grey dawn was beginning to break before she closed her eyes in sleep. The future was still dark before her. She saw no way to bring about what she so earnestly desired. There was nothing to do but leave it all in the Hand which is strong to help in time of need. And what better could she do than cling to the promise which God has given?

“God of the widow! Father of the fatherless! interpose for them,” she prayed. And her prayer was heard and answered.