He was an aged man, and knew much of the sorrow and
the trials of life; he turned, with a tear in his eye, from his loved
sister and passed into the street.
The storm was increasing, but he heeded not the peltings of the wintry
wind, or the wild music that mingled with its mournful wail, as he
passed the luxurious hall, where
"Fashion's gay tapers were lighted."
Other thoughts occupied his mind.
He soon stood by the bedside of a dear daughter, who was passing away
from earth, while yet in the bloom and the beauty of youth. She was a
wife, and a mother of two sweet children, whose tender age required a
mother's watchfulness--a mother's care. But with childlike trust, she
had given them back to that God, who had given them to her. Her trust
was in him, and now she was ready to follow her dear Saviour into the
cold dark grave, with the assurance that she should have a part in the
first resurrection. Melancholy sounded the music from that distant
ball room, as it stole upon the wings of the winter wind, into the
chamber of the dying one. Her ear was listening to catch the notes
of angel harps before the throne of God, and her passing spirit was
attuned to their melodies. The beauties of the upper world transfixed
her rapt vision, and no earthly object stood between her soul and God.
And so she passed away, and left to her earthly friends but the frail
casket, while the priceless jewel had soared to brighter regions, to
glitter in a Saviour's crown.
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