He added a few lines with
steady hand, and, as I sealed it, said, with a patient sort of sigh,
"I hope the answer will come in time for me to see it;" then,
turning away his face, laid the flowers against his lips, as if to
hide some quiver of emotion at the thought of such a sudden
sundering of all the dear home-ties.
These things had happened two days before; now John was dying, and
the letter had not come. I had been summoned to many death-beds in
my life, but to none that made my heart ache as it did then, since
my mother called me to watch the departure of a spirit akin to this
in its gentleness and patient strength. As I went in, John stretched
out both hands,--
"I knew you'd come! I guess I'm moving on, ma'am."
He was; and so rapidly that, even while he spoke, over his face I
saw the gray veil falling that no human hand can lift. I sat down by
him, wiped the drops from his forehead, stirred the air about him
with the slow wave of a fan, and waited to help him die. He stood in
sore need of help,--and I could do so little; for, as the doctor had
foretold, the strong body rebelled against death, and fought every
inch of the way, forcing him to draw each breath with a spasm, and
clench his hands with an imploring look, as if he asked, "How long
must I endure this, and be still?" For hours he suffered dumbly,
without a moment's respite, or a moment's murmuring; his limbs grew
cold, his face damp, his lips white, and, again and again, he tore
the covering off his breast, as if the lightest weight added to his
agony; yet through it all, his eyes never lost their perfect
serenity, and the man's soul seemed to sit therein, undaunted by the
ills that vexed his flesh.
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