Part 120 (2/2)
”Yes, I hope you will. But do you think we shall know everybody in Heaven? Or will it be only our own relations?”
”Oh, child! I think there will be no relations, as you call it, up there. We can trust all that to G.o.d, however it may be.”
William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently in thought, a dark blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His bed had been moved toward the window, for he liked to sit in it, and look at the landscape. The window was open now, and the b.u.t.terflies and bees sported in the summer air.
”I wonder how it will be?” pondered he, aloud. ”There will be the beautiful city, its gates of pearl, and its s.h.i.+ning precious stones, and its streets of gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely flowers; and there will be the harps, and music, and singing. And what else will there be?”
”Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William; but, what we may not antic.i.p.ate here.”
Another pause. ”Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you think, or will He send an angel?”
”Jesus has promised to come for His own redeemed--for those who love Him and wait for Him.”
”Yes, yes, and then I shall be happy forever. It will be so pleasant to be there, never to be tired or ill again.”
”Pleasant? Ay! Oh, William! Would that the time were come!”
She was thinking of herself--of her freedom--though the boy knew it not.
She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking; William had to bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.
”'And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are pa.s.sed away.'”
”Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?” he presently asked. ”I mean mamma that was.”
”Ay, ere long.”
”But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was like.”
She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst into a flood of impa.s.sioned tears. ”You will know her, never fear, William; she has not forgotten you.”
”But how can we be sure that she will be there?” debated William, after a pause of thought. ”You know”--sinking his voice, and speaking with hesitation--”she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask G.o.d to forgive her!”
”Oh, William!” sobbed the unhappy lady, ”her whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness. Her repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and----”
”And what?” asked William, for there was a pause.
”Her heart broke in it--yearning after you and your father.”
”What makes you think it?”
”Child, I know it!”
William considered. Then, had he been strong enough, he would have started up with energy. ”Madame Vine, you could only know that by mamma's telling you! Did you ever see her? Did you know her abroad?”
Lady Isabel's thoughts were far away--up in the clouds perhaps. She reflected not on the possible consequences of her answer, or she had never given it.
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