THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE故事

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　　　THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE故事
　　    IT was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt
　　    the deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years
　　    old, the joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters,
　　    the elder of whom was going to be confirmed, still remained:
　　    they were both good, charming girls; but the lost child always
　　    seems the dearest; and when it is youngest, and a son, it
　　    makes the trial still more heavy. The sisters mourned as young
　　    hearts can mourn, and were especially grieved at the sight of
　　    their parents' sorrow. The father's heart was bowed down, but
　　    the mother sunk completely under the deep grief. Day and night
　　    she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying it in
　　    her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the
　　    fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to
　　    rest in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling
　　    little one from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding
　　    her hopes and her belief, and there could be no more doubt on
　　    the subject, she said in her feverish agony, "God does not
　　    know it. He has hard-hearted ministering spirits on earth, who
　　    do according to their own will, and heed not a mother's
　　    prayers." Thus in her great grief she fell away from her faith
　　    in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind respecting death
　　    and a future state. She tried to believe that man was but
　　    dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these
　　    doubts were no support to her, nothing on which she could
　　    rest, and she sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In
　　    her darkest hours she ceased to weep, and thought not of the
　　    young daughters who were still left to her. The tears of her
　　    husband fell on her forehead, but she took no notice of him;
　　    her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole existence
　　    seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of the little one and of
　　    every innocent word it had uttered.
　　    The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights
　　    previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning
            
            

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　　    twilight of this day she sunk from weariness into a deep
　　    sleep; in the mean time the coffin was carried into a distant
　　    room, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows
　　    of the hammer. When she awoke, and wanted to see her child,
　　    the husband, with tears, said, "We have closed the coffin; it
　　    was necessary to do so."
　　    "When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be
　　    better?" she said with groans and tears.
　　    The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate
　　    mother sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but
　　    she saw them not; for her thoughts were far away from the
　　    domestic hearth. She gave herself up to her grief, and it
　　    tossed her to and fro, as the sea tosses a ship without
　　    compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral passed away, and
　　    similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain. With tearful
　　    eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and the
　　    afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their
　　    words of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could
　　    they speak, when they were themselves so full of grief? It
　　    seemed as if she would never again know sleep, and yet it
　　    would have been her best friend, one who would have
　　    strengthened her body and poured peace into her soul. They at
　　    last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would lie as
　　    still as if she slept.
　　    One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to
　　    her breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found
　　    rest and relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and
　　    soon sunk himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not
　　    notice that his wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided
　　    silentl
　　y from the house, to go where her thoughts constantly
　　    lingered- to the grave of her child. She passed through the
　　    garden, to a path across a field that led to the churchyard.
　　    No one saw her as she walked, nor did she see any one; for her
　　    eyes were fixed upon the one object of her wanderings. It was
　　    a lovely starlight night in the beginning of September, and
            
            

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　　    the air was mild and still. She entered the churchyard, and
　　    stood by the little grave, which looked like a large nosegay
　　    of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over
　　    the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth
　　    that covered him- her little boy, whose smile was so vividly
　　    before her, and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on
　　    his sick-bed, she could not forget. How full of meaning that
　　    glance had been, as she leaned over him, holding in hers the
　　    pale hand which he had no longer strength to raise! As she had
　　    sat by his little cot, so now she sat by his grave; and here
　　    she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon it.
　　    "Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said
　　    a voice quite close to her,- a voice that sounded so deep and
　　    clear, that it went to her heart.
　　    She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a
　　    black cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her
　　    keen glance could distinguish the face under the hood. It was
　　    stern, yet awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with
　　    youthful radiance.
　　    "Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and
　　    entreaty sounded in the words.
　　    "Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."
　　    She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it
　　    appeared as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of
　　    the full moon on the many-colored flowers that decked the
　　    grave. The earth that covered it was drawn back like a
　　    floating drapery. She sunk down, and the spectre covered her
　　    with a black cloak; night closed around her, the night of
　　    death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could
　　    penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then
　　    the cloak was removed, and she found herself in a large hall,
　　    of wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued
　　    light, like twilight, reigning, and in a moment her child
　　    appeared before her, smiling, and more beautiful than ever;
　　    with a silent cry she pressed him to her heart. A glorious
            
            

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　　    strain of music sounded- now distant, now near. Never had she
　　    listened to such tones as these; they came from beyond a large
　　    dark curtain which separated the regions of death from the
　　    land of eternity.
　　    "My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It
　　    was the well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in
　　    boundless delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain.
　　    "There is nothing so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother,
　　    do you not see them all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."
　　    But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out,
　　    only the dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could
　　    not see as the child saw,- he whom God has called to be with
　　    Himself. She could hear the sounds of music, but she heard not
　　    the words, the Word in which she was to trust.
　　    "I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with
　　    other happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I
　　    would fain fly away now; but if you weep for me as you are
　　    weeping now, you may never see me again. And yet I would go so
　　    gladly. May I not fly away? And you will come to me soon, will
　　    you not, dear mother?"
　　    "Oh, stay, stay!" implored the mother; "only one moment
　　    more; only once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss
　　    thee, and press thee to my heart."
　　Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name
　　    was called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in
　　    a plaintive voice.
　　    "Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls
　　    thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of
　　    children weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child.
　　    "Mother, surely you have not forgotten them."
　　    And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great
　　    terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night.
　　    Dim forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as
　　    they floated through the regions of death towards the dark
　　    curtain, where they vanished. Would her husband and her
            
            

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　　    daughters flit past? No; their sighs and lamentations still
　　    sounded from above; and she had nearly forgotten them, for the
　　    sake of him who was dead.
　　    "Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing," said the
　　    child; "mother, the sun is going to rise."
　　    An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had
　　    vanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her
　　    became cold; she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying
　　    in the churchyard, on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a
　　    dream, had been a guide to her feet and a light to her spirit.
　　    She bowed her knees, and prayed for forgiveness. She had
　　    wished to keep back a soul from its immortal flight; she had
　　    forgotten her duties towards the living who were left her. And
　　    when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt lighter. The
　　    sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his
　　    song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service.
　　    Everything around her seemed holy, and her heart was
　　    chastened. She acknowledged the goodness of God, she
　　    acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and eagerly she
　　    returned home. She bent over her husband, who still slept; her
　　    warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and words of heartfelt love
　　    fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle and strong as a
　　    wife can be; and from her lips came the words of faith:
　　    "Whatever He doeth is right and best."
　　    Then her husband asked, "From whence hast thou all at once
　　    derived such strength and comforting faith?"
　　    And as she kissed him and her children, she said, "It came
　　    from God, through my child in the grave."
　　    THE END