The Thorn in the Nest

She fell upon her knees at his side, still with his hand in hers, her face radiant with unutterable joy.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "My darling, my darling! at rest, at rest, and safe at last!"

"Dat he is, dat he is, bress de Lord!" ejaculated the old negress.

For many minutes the new-made widow knelt there gazing fixedly into the calm face of the dead; then rising she gently closed the eyes and composed the limbs of him who had been to her nearer and dearer than aught else on earth, not a tear dimming her eyes, but a light shining in them as in those of one on whom had been suddenly bestowed an intensely longed for and almost despaired of boon.

"No strange hands shall busy themselves about thee, my beloved," she murmured, "mine, only mine shall make you ready for your quiet, peaceful sleep, 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.'"

Vashti looked on in wonder and surprise, silently giving such assistance as she might, without waiting for orders, bringing needed articles and making the room neat.

At length, the task completed, Vashti went down to her kitchen, but Mrs. Clendenin lingered still by the side of the beloved clay, gazing with hungry eyes upon the face that must soon be hidden from the sight beneath the clods of the valley.

A light step crossed the threshold and a slight girlish figure stood beside her. In an instant Marian's arms were round her mother's neck, her kisses and tears warm upon her cheek.

"Precious, precious mother! Oh, don't let your heart break!"

"No, darling!" she whispered, clasping the weeping girl in her arms; "it is full of joy and thankfulness for him, for he has laid down his heavy, heavy cross and received his crown, the crown of righteousness bought for him with the precious blood of Christ.

"Ah, my Angus, how blest, how blest art thou!" she cried, bending over the still form and pressing her lips to the cold brow.

They lingered over him for some minutes, the girl weeping and sobbing, the mother calm and placid; then together they went down-stairs and out into the shrubbery.

There were no curious eyes to watch them as they paced slowly up and down the walks, for the nearest neighbor was a full half mile away, on the farther side of the western hills.

The mother talked low and soothingly to her weeping child, speaking of the glories and bliss of heaven, and of the loving care of the Lord for His saints on earth.

"Mother, mother!" cried the girl, "I feared your heart would break; but instead you seem full of joy!"

"Ah, dear one, life has been a terror to him for many years; and shall I mourn that he has at last gotten the victory? That he is gone home to his Father's house, where there is perfect safety and fulness of joy forever more?"

"Mother," whispered the girl with a shudder, "what did he fear? Why have I never been told?"

"Dear child, do not ask! Oh, never ask that!" cried the mother in a startled tone, and turning a look of anguish upon her questioner.

The girl's face reflected it.

"Oh, why is it that I am not to be trusted?" she sobbed, almost wringing her hands in her bitter grief and distress; "why should I be deemed unworthy of confidence, even by my own mother? Would I – ". But sobs choked her utterance.

"My darling, my precious child, it is not that, not that," faltered the mother, clasping her in her arms with tender caresses. "But let us speak of this no more, let us forget his sufferings, as he has forgotten them now. It is what he would have wished. Shall we not try, daughter?"

"Yes, yes, my poor, dear mother, I will for your sake," sobbed the girl. "Ah, if Kenneth were only here! When will he come?"

"I do not know," said Mrs. Clendenin, sighing slightly. "It is now several weeks since my letter went, but there are often delays, and it may not have reached him yet. I think he would start at once on receiving it, but the journey is long and tedious at the best, and there may be unlooked-for detentions consuming much time, so that we can hardly expect him for many days to come."

The letter she spoke of was the same that had caused Kenneth's sudden departure from Chillicothe only the previous day. A month later he reached Glen Forest.

Mrs. Clendenin, seated at the open window, saw him alight at the gate, and hastened out to meet him. There was a silent embrace, then an earnest scanning by each of the other's face, noting the changes wrought by time and the wear and tear of life.

Kenneth's eyes grew misty, for the dear face before him had aged very much since last he had looked upon it, and the dark hair had turned to silvery white.

She was regarding him with wistful tenderness. "Yes," she said, answering his unspoken thought in a half playful tone, yet smiling through gathering tears, "I am growing old, and you, my dear boy, are not quite so young as you were. Come in. Ah, it is good to have you here, at home again! You have heard, of course – "

"Yes, since arriving in the neighborhood, but I knew from your letter that all would be over long before I could reach you. It was a sore trial to think that even the small comfort and support of your boy's presence must be denied you."

"It was all right," she answered in low, sweet tones. "He was with me who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him."

"I knew He would be, and that was my consolation," Kenneth returned in moved tones.

Then glancing about as they entered the house, "Where is Marian?" he asked.

The mother explained that she had gone on an errand to a neighbor's half a mile away, and would not probably be back for an hour or more.

Vashti was summoned, bade her young master welcome with tears of joy, and hastened to set refreshments before him.

But he did them scant justice. His heart was too full of contending emotions to allow of much appetite, though he had not tasted food for some hours.

Gazing upon the loved face he had not seen for years, listening to the well remembered tones of the dear voice that had been wont to soothe his childish griefs, to give the well earned meed of praise which was the highly prized reward of his boyish efforts to be and do all that was good, noble, and manly, he forgot to eat.

She had much to tell of all that had occurred in the family during his absence, but her principal theme was the sickness and death of her husband.

Kenneth listened with intense, sorrowful interest to her description of that last scene, and seemed to feel no surprise when she told of the joy and thankfulness with which she had parted from her heart's best treasure.

He had risen from the table and drawn a chair to her side. "Dear mother," he said in faltering accents, taking her hand in his, "what a life yours has been! What but the grace of God could have sustained you through it all!"

"Blessed be His holy name, it has always been sufficient for me!" she answered. "'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' and I am persuaded that He will help me to the end."

A moment's silence, which Kenneth was the first to break.

"Tell me of Marian, mother," he said. "She has grown? I shall doubtless find her greatly changed."

"More perhaps than you think; the dear child has shot up into a tall, graceful, blooming girl, very sweet and lovable, in her mother's eyes at least, with a beauty that oftentimes makes me tremble for her future. Kenneth, Kenneth, the child will surely be sought in marriage, and what shall we do?"

With the last words her voice took on a tone of keen distress and the eyes she lifted to his were full of anguish.

"It must not, must not be!" he answered hurriedly, his brow contracting in a spasm of pain. "Mother, keep her secluded here with you; let her have no communication with the other sex, old or young."

"Alas, I fear the utmost vigilance will not prevent it!" she cried, heaving a deep drawn sigh. "Oh, my darling, my darling, your mother's heart bleeds for you!"

"Dear mother," he said, again taking her hand and speaking low and tremulously, "can you not cast this burden also upon the Lord?"

"Sometimes," she said; "ah, I should die if I could not! But, Kenneth, what shall we do? Would it not be better to tell her all – to warn her in time?"

"Never!" he cried with energy, "it were too fearful a risk; it might cause the very calamity we so dread."

"Too true! too true!" she sighed, clasping her hands in her lap and closing her eyes, while her very lips grew white.

He bent over her, taking her cold hands in his, repeating low and tenderly the precious promise, "'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee: and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'"