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"GRANNY ROBIN, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU A SECRET."
They were all very good to him. Aunt Cordelia would come to her window with a little cake fresh baked from her oven, to tempt him to eat. Audrey would spend all her spare time in reading to him and trying to amuse him. Granny Robin would let him climb inside her window, and lie on her knee for hours together; whilst his father would do anything and everything that he thought would cheer and brighten the child whom he loved so dearly.
But although they were all so kind to him, although they all felt that he suffered far more from the intense heat than they did, still none of them were very anxious about him. They had been so long accustomed to his being weak and fragile, that it did not strike them as strange that he should be so completely exhausted by the weather; and they hoped and believed that when cooler days came his strength would return, and that he would be what he had been, and would do what he had been able to do before the hot weather set in.
It was old Joe who saw most clearly, in spite of the dimness of his sight for other things, that little Stephen was fading away. The evenings were long and light now, and the old man and the children spent more time together than before. The two graves were covered with flowers, and old Joe had taken Stephen's place in helping Audrey to water them and to take care of them. Stephen was too weak even to lift his own little can. But Joe would carry him in his arms to look at them, and to smell the roses which were growing on a little rose-bush, which he had given him to plant on the grave of the two grandchildren.
Yet tears would often come into the old man's eyes as he looked at the child. He had had no one to love him or to care for him till the children had found him, and now one of them was going to leave him.
"Joe," said Stephen to him one day, "you'll take care of the grave for me if I go away."
"Yes, Stephie, yes, to be sure I will," said the old man, as he wiped away the tears which would come in his eyes.
But he never asked him where he was going, or when. He knew, and Stephen knew, that the Child of Light was on his way to the Home of Light, where darkness cannot come. He could not help speaking of it that night, when Mr. Robin brought him his supper, that he might eat it under the lilac tree.
"The little lad's going fast," he said, with a sob.
"What little lad? Not Stephie!" said Mr. Robin.
"He is, though," said the old man; "and what's more, he knows it hisself."
It was only old Joe's fancy, Mr. Robin said, when he mentioned it to his wife, but still he did think Stephen's father should let a doctor see him.
Stephen's father was spoken to, and at once went off for the best doctor in the old city. But the doctor told them just what the old man had told them before—that Stephen was going fast. He might pick up a bit if cooler weather came, but he would never outlive the summer, he said.
Stephen had heard the doctor's words, and leaving his father and Mr. Robin together, he crept away to Granny Robin's window.
"May I come in and sit on your knee, Granny Robin?" he said.
"Yes, my little darling," said the old woman, as she felt for the window, that she might help him in.
"Now we're cosy," said Stephen, as the old woman laid aside her knitting and took him in her arms.
"Granny Robin, I've come to tell you a secret."
"What is it, Stephie?"
"I'm going to die young, Granny Robin."
"Oh, I hope not, my dear child!" she said, as she stroked his little thin face.
"Yes, the doctor said so," said Stephen gravely. "And you said it was a good thing for the two grandchildren, Granny Robin."
"Yes, it will be a good thing for you, Stephie," she said; "but oh, what shall we do without you? Whatever shall we all do without you?" And Granny Robin broke down at this, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Never mind," said little Stephen—"don't cry! I'm a Child of Light, you know; and it will never be dark in the King's Garden—will it, Granny Robin? And won't it be nice when you, and father, and Audrey, and old Joe come there too?"
Granny Robin dried her eyes; she would not grieve the little lad by her tears. And there was Audrey to be comforted—poor little Audrey—who had come in crying and full of sorrow.
"I'm so tired," said Stephen presently, with a long, deep sigh.
Audrey called his father, who lifted him out of Granny Robin's arms, and carried him to his little bed.
"Father," he said, as he was undressing him, "carry me to the window, please."
"Why, Stephie, it's getting dark," he said. "What did you want to see?"
"I always look out before I get into bed," said the child. "I always have a peep at the grave of the two grandchildren. Yes—there it is; isn't it pretty, father? I wonder if any angels are looking at it now, and if they see you and me up here? Shall you plant any flowers on my grave? You will, won't you? I do wish I could be buried here, under the window."
"My little lad, my own darling little lad!" sobbed the father, as he laid him on his pillow.
The next day Stephen seemed better than he had done for weeks before, and they all felt cheered and comforted, in spite of the doctor's words. He walked about a little, and sat under the lilac bush, and even helped Audrey to water the graves.
"Maybe he'll get better after all," said Mr. Robin hopefully. "Doctors do make mistakes sometimes."
But old Joe shook his head.
"The candle flickers up a bit afore it goes out," he said gravely.
White Robes
THE summer passed away, the hot, tiring weather departed, and cool winds began to blow over the churchyard. The leaves on the trees were changing colour, the flowers on the two graves were dying one by one, the ground in the early morning was wet with heavy dew, the swallows that lived in the old church were consulting with their friends about flying to a warmer country, yet still little Stephen, contrary to the doctor's expectation, lingered on. He was growing much weaker, but he was very happy, and he was not at all afraid of what was coming. He was going to the King's Garden, he said, and the flowers would not fade there.
Audrey spent every spare moment of the day by his side, and he lay for hours in Granny Robin's arms whilst she talked or sang to him.
His thoughts were still very busy about the old graves in the churchyard.
"I shall look for all of them in the Garden—" he said, "for Audrey's John, and for my John, and for Mary, relict of the above. Wouldn't you like to see them, Granny Robin? And I shall tell them Audrey is taking care of their graves. But I think I shall look first for the two grandchildren who died young. I think they will be my little friends, like Audrey is here."
"But there's Someone you will like to see best of all," said Granny Robin.
"Yes, the King," said little Stephen, "the dear Son. Will He talk to me, Granny Robin?"
"Yes, my darling," she said; "He will feed you, and He will lead you to fountains of living waters, and you shall see His face, and His name shall be in your forehead. You could never enter the Garden if He had not died for you, and brought you into the Kingdom of Light."
"I think I shall soon go now," said little Stephen. "Perhaps I shall be there to-morrow, Granny Robin."
She took a very tender leave of him when his father came to carry him home to bed. He seemed more tired than usual that night, she thought; perhaps he had talked too much. He would be rested in the morning, she said to herself, as she took up her knitting. She could not see what Stephen's father saw as he lifted him from her knee—that a change was creeping over his little thin face. Aunt Cordelia saw it, too, as she came to kiss him when he was carried past her window; and she followed Stephen's father home, and helped him to undress the little boy, and to lay him in bed.
"Thank you," said little Stephen, as he laid his head on the pillow; "I'm so tired."
Aunt Cordelia sat down at the foot of the bed, and his father held his little hand in his, and turned away, that Stephen might not see his tears.
All was very still, and they thought that he had fallen asleep, when he looked up and said—
"I've never said 'Good-night' to Audrey."
Aunt Cordelia went to fetch her. Audrey was in bed, but she wrapped her in a shawl and carried her in.
Little Stephen sat up, put his arms round her neck, and whispered—
"Don't forget the two grandchildren, Audrey; you'll keep them nice, won't you? Good-bye!"
When Audrey had gone, he seemed to be sleeping again, and his father and Aunt Cordelia sat quite still, fearing to disturb him.
It must have been more than two hours after this, that he stirred again.
"What is it, Stephen?" asked his father. "What is it, my dear little lad?"
"The graves—" said Stephen. "I never looked out to-night; take me to look at them, father."
His father lifted him very gently and tenderly, and carried him to the window.
It was full moon, and the churchyard was filled with the pale silvery light. The grave of the two grandchildren was bathed in the moonlight; and the child lay in his father's arms for a long time, looking at it.
Then he suddenly raised his head, and said, with a cry of gladness—
"Father, the angels have come! I can see them to-night."
And then his head fell back heavily on his father's arm.
Yes, the angels had come, and the little Child of Light had gone away with them.
It was only Stephen's tiny worn-out body which his father laid back on the bed. Stephen was gone. He had passed above the churchyard; he had left the old city behind; he had gone higher than the moonlight, higher and higher still, to the King's Garden.
Were the two grandchildren who died young looking out for him at the glorious gate? Was the mother who had died when he was born waiting and watching for her boy? We cannot tell, we do not know; but we can tell, we do know, that the dear Lord he loved, the Saviour who had taken away his sin, and who had removed him from the Kingdom of Darkness to the Kingdom of Light, was there to welcome him to His paradise of everlasting glory, where the Children of Light dwell in no earthly sunshine, but the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the Light thereof.
They all missed him terribly, yet they tried to comfort themselves by thinking of his joy, and they all looked forward to the day when they would see him again.
"Mr. Robin, sir, you must teach me as you taught my little lad," said Stephen's father, as they walked home from the tiny grave in the cemetery where Stephen's body had been laid.
"God helping me, I will!" said Mr. Robin, with tears in his eyes.
It was wonderful how Stephen's loss drew them all together. Even Aunt Cordelia, who used to pride herself on making no neighbours, seemed to have become one of a very loving family. As for old Joe, his one desire was to do all the little lad would have liked him to do. He comforted Audrey, he watered the graves, he went to church on Sunday—above all, he said the prayer Stephen had taught him, and he tried to walk as one of the Children of Light.
Mr. Robin and Audrey made another expedition to the market on a Saturday afternoon late in the autumn. Audrey's face was very sorrowful this time as she carried the basket. They were not buying flowers, for there were few flowers in the market now; they were looking for bulbs, and the bulbs were for little Stephen's grave.
"I think they ought to be white," said Audrey, with a sob; "it will look more like a Child of Light—won't it, Mr. Robin?"
So they chose white snowdrops, white crocuses, and large white hyacinths for the little grave in the cemetery.
It was one of a long row of little graves, children's graves, which had been made side by side, at the edge of the path. Very carefully, very tenderly, they worked at it, and the bulbs were planted and covered over with soil.
"It doesn't look very pretty now," said Audrey; "it is all brown and bare."
"Wait a bit," said Mr. Robin; "we will come again in the spring."
So the winter came, and the white snow lay thick on Stephen's grave in the cemetery, and in the churchyard on the grave of the two grandchildren who died young. But when the warm spring sunshine had melted the snow, and was turning the trees green, and bringing the flowers on the lilac bush, the old man and Audrey went once more to the cemetery.
A tiny white stone now stood at the head of the small grave, and on the stone they read these words:
LITTLE STEPHEN,WHO DIED YOUNG,A CHILD OF LIGHT.
And in front of the stone was a lovely mass of pure white flowers.
"It looks beautiful," said Audrey, with a sigh. "I do wish he could see it."
"It's a good picture of the little lad now," said the old man; "for does not the Lord say, 'They shall be like unto the angels'? And of the angels we read, 'Their raiment is white as the light.' Yes, the Children of Light are clothed in the robes of light, even fine linen, clean and white, which is the righteousness of the saints. Once they were covered with sin, but now they are white and clean, made white in the blood of the Lamb, whiter than snow."
"I wish we were all there," said Audrey, "you, and me, and Granny Robin, and Aunt Cordelia, and Stephen's father, and old Joe. Wouldn't Stephie be glad if we were to come?"
As they walked home, Mr. Robin taught Audrey a little hymn, which she liked very much, and which she always repeated afterwards, when she came to look at Stephen's grave.
"'Within the gate, they dwell at home,In rest, in life, in light;No grief, no sin, no care can come,But all is glad, is brightWithin the gate.'""'Without the gate, our weary feetStill tread the vale of tears;We often sin; our anxious heartsAre sometimes filled with fears,Without the gate.'""'Open the gate, Lord Jesus! Come,Thou whom our hearts love well,And bid us enter Thy dear home,Where Thy beloved dwell.Open the gate!'"
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.