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STRONGER THAN DEATH.
SO the brighter days that Millie had talked about in Drury Lane had really come! Their father obtained work at Moultonsea, where he went to and fro by rail morning and evening. Then their old cottage in the village street happening to be empty ("It seemed to be on purpose," Phil said), they moved into it before Christmas. Little by little, too, they got back the greater part of their old furniture, for the neighbours who had purchased it, offered it to them at the same prices which they themselves had paid for it, while those who could afford to be generous came and begged them to accept as a gift a chair, a bedstead, or table, as the case might be.
There was hardly any perceptible change in Phil. If anything, he grew weaker, but they fondly hoped it was only the winter weather that tried him. Millie was his devoted nurse during the day; her father taking her place at night. If he was well enough, and the weather was favourable, she would wheel him out in his chair, but that happened less and less frequently as time advanced. It hurt his back, he said. What he liked best was to be carried in his father's arms around their little garden on a Sunday afternoon. That never tired him, and he loved to listen to the mellow pealing of the bells, as they rang the villagers to church.
"What a big, old baby I am, father!" he would say saucily.
To which, with a loving smile, his father would answer:
"I wonder you aren't ashamed to be such a plague at your age," but all the while, he noticed with a heavy heart that every time he lifted his "baby," he found the load a lighter one.
At the beginning of spring there came a more noticeable change. Then even Millie, who was always making herself believe that Phil would be well and strong again some day, perceived only too plainly that he daily became weaker, and his appetite less. She was glad when the drawing which he intended to give Miss Crawford was at length finished, for even the exertion of holding a pencil fatigued him.
"You won't begin anything else, will you, dear?" she said when, having pronounced his sketch completed, he called his sister to admire it.
"No, Millie, but I wanted to give Miss Crawford something that would make her remember me. She'll hang this up in her room, I know, and she'll think of me whenever she looks at it." Then after a pause, he said in a voice that was full of longing, "I should so like to see her again, Millie, before I die."
"You will not leave us yet, darling, I hope," replied Millie, bravely keeping back her tears, "but if you wish, I'll write and tell her what you say."
"Do you think she would come?"
"I am sure she will. I'll send her a letter at once."
"There's no great hurry, you know," said Phil, "but somehow I feel that I shall never be any better. I shall gradually get worse and worse. Don't cry, dear—" for Millie could no longer control her tears. "I am very happy. I am not afraid to die. I would rather it should be so. Remember, if I lived, I should be a helpless, suffering invalid, a burden upon you all. It's far better as it is."
He stroked her hair lovingly, calling her by the many pet names he had for her, and he would not let her go till she had smiled again.
Millie's letter went that night, and by a singular coincidence she received one from Miss Crawford the very next morning. It contained wonderful news. Millie could hardly believe her eyes as she read it.
Miss Crawford said that her brother had again been seriously ill, that she herself was far from well, and that her father, hoping the change would benefit both his son and daughter, had decided to rent a house in the country for a few months. Hearing in a most unexpected manner of a villa to be let near Chormouth, they had, taken it, and soon, she told Millie, she might expect to see her.
How delighted Millie was, to be sure! But though Phil said little, his joy was deeper than his sister's.
With Miss Crawford's presence, Phil's last desire was gratified. The house that Mr. Crawford had taken was about a couple of miles from Chormouth, but she drove over nearly every day to see the dying boy—for that he was gradually, but surely, dying was now apparent to all.
On one occasion she told him that she was engaged to be married to Dr. Bethune.
"I am very glad, Miss Crawford," he said simply. "I thought so all along."
"Did you, Phil?" she replied. "I thought it would be a great surprise to you."
"Shall you be married soon?" he asked.
"Yes, very soon now," she said; "that is why I told you about it. If all be well, I shall be married on the first of June. Only one thing will grieve me," she added fondly, "and that is, that after my wedding I shall not be able to visit you. We shall live in London then."
"I am glad of that," Phil said heartily. "The people are so poor and so miserable there, and you will make some of them happier, I know. They want somebody to help them. What should I have done without you, I wonder!"
"Dear Phil, I have done very little for you," she replied, with tears in her eyes. "We will do more for others if it please God to give us the means and the health."
When she rose to wish him good-bye, she said: "I shall come oftener than ever to see you now that I shall so soon be leaving you."
"It's a long time yet before the first of June," he remarked. "You'll be married in London, I suppose, Miss Crawford?"
"No, down here in the country. If you tried hard, you might be able to hear my wedding bells."
"I should like to see you in your pretty dress," he said wistfully, "but I'm afraid I shan't be well enough to get so far as the church if I tried ever so. Perhaps by that time—"
He broke off hastily, and with a smile bade her good-bye, telling her to be sure to come very often.
And she did, but Phil grew hourly weaker, and they feared that each day would be his last. He was very patient. They only knew that he was in pain by the flush on his face, the closed eyes and knitted brow. He rarely uttered a sound, never one of complaint; only sometimes a low cry of weariness would break from him. He gave up going out of doors entirely; he could not even bear to be carried in his father's arms. The village doctor who attended him said that at any moment the flickering breath of the boy's life might be extinguished.
Every evening his father hurried home, dreading, yet expecting to hear that his boy was gone. But no, the light of Phil's life burned on, very feebly, almost imperceptibly at times, but still it burned.
It was the last day of May. Phil was expecting Miss Crawford to pay him her farewell visit. She had not forgotten the boy's wistful eyes when he told her how he wished he could see her in her pretty wedding dress, and she resolved to gratify him, if he still desired it. She knew that it would be the last pleasure in her power to give him. So when she drove that afternoon to Chormouth, the box containing her wedding dress and veil went in the carriage with her.
She passed into Phil's room, and after some conversation—which was cheerful in spite of their coming separation—she asked him if he still cared to see her in her bridal attire; for if he did, she said, it would be no trouble to put it on. He was delighted at the idea, and when she came from Millie's room in her beautiful dress of glistening satin and lace, the lovely picture that she made almost took his breath away. He gazed at her to his heart's content while she stood in the centre of the room, blushing a little, beneath the scrutinising glances of the brother and sister.
She had never yet received the sketch that Phil had drawn for her. He begged Millie to fetch it now, and gave it to Miss Crawford "as a wedding gift with his dear love."
"Dear Phil, thank you very much, I shall treasure it all my life long for your sake."
"I shall think of you to-morrow," he said. "I shall have the window open and listen for the bells."
"And I shall think of you, and pray for you. You must pray for me, too, that my future life may be blessed and happy."
He smiled his answer.
"Say good-bye to me in that dress, please, Miss Crawford," he continued, presently. "I should like always to keep you in my memory just as you are now. You are all white and shining, and you brighten the room like an angel of light. To think of you so will help me to bear my pain. I shall only have to close my eyes to see you again."
Stooping down over the bed, and taking his hand in hers, she put back her long floating veil, and again kissed him, as she had done in the hospital ward months ago.
He smiled gratefully and lovingly, and so keeping his eyes on her as she walked towards the door, Phil saw the white-robed figure pass out from his gaze for ever.
Soon after that he fell asleep. Going out on tip-toe to meet her father when he came in from his work, Millie brought him into Phil's room. Together they sat by his bedside and watched him. For the dying boy, the light of life was indeed burning dimly.
"Millie," he said suddenly.
"What is it, dear? We thought you were asleep."
"No, I have been thinking. My pain is all gone, and such beautiful things came into my mind. Will you say my verse to me?" He always spoke of the text that Miss Crawford had written in his Bible as his verse. "I like to hear your voice."
She did so:
"'We love Him, because He first loved us.'"
"Isn't it sweet?" he said, with a smile lighting up his face. "O! Millie," he went on earnestly, "I am so glad now that it ever happened. It seemed so hard at first. I couldn't understand that it was done in love. O! The love of the Lord Jesus! I was hard and wicked, and it softened me and won me over in spite of myself. Love has done it all through—first yours, then Miss Crawford's, and then the greatest love of all—the love that is stronger than death. Don't cry, Millie dear, there's nothing to grieve for."
She smiled through her tears and caressed his hand lovingly.
He said no more, and presently fell asleep again.
Hours passed before he opened his eyes and spoke again.
"Millie, tell me your dream once more."
She did not understand, and asked gently, what dream he meant.
"The dream you told me on the bridge in London. I want to hear it again."
Kneeling down by his bedside, and forcing herself to speak in a clear voice, she began:
"I dreamt, dear, that you and I lived here together, just as we did at Mrs. Blake's cottage, only that you were quite well and strong; and that one beautiful night, when the moon shone brightly—see, it is shining so to-night—you and I walked on the sands at low tide. I had a great longing upon me to go to mother. I thought the glistening ladder of light the moon shed across the sea seemed a way that would lead us to her. You said you would come too, and hand-in-hand we ran over the sands. But when we came to the water's edge, there stood father, and though we tried, we could not pass under his outstretched arms. He asked us where we were going, and when I told him, he begged us to come back, and wait till he was ready to go with us. Then—"
"Yes, yes," said Phil, interrupting her, but speaking in so low a voice that they had to bend down their ears to catch the words—"Yes, yes, I remember. I couldn't wait; I had gone on. Father, you and Millie will come together some day."
There was a long silence. The father and daughter knew that the light was going out fast. Day was just breaking, when again the weak, quivering voice was heard:
"Give my love to uncle. Tell him I would not have it different—I am going on first, that's all.—Don't let her know till after she's married.—Cleansed in the blood—Drawn with the bands of love.—Look, Millie! The silvery pathway is shining just as it did when you saw it.—Why—why, mother!—"
Phil started up in bed, drew one deep gasp, and fell back upon his pillow—dead.
* * * * *
The knell tolled at Chormouth, and mingled its sounds with the distant echo of Miss Crawford's wedding bells, but she knew not till days after that Phil's happy spirit had passed away from earth on her marriage morn.
Dr. Bethune is a famous physician now.
"Little feet pattering and little tongues chattering—"
are heard from morning till night in his house. His wife, amid all her duties, still finds time and opportunity to carry on the good work which she began years ago. Phil's picture hangs in her bedroom, and the story of his life and death is familiar to all her children.
Richard Hunt never returned to his old habits of intemperance. He now lives in a healthy suburb of London, and is highly esteemed by his neighbours. He, too, has reasons to remember Phil. In speaking of him, he utters his name reverently, as if it bore a sacred charm.
Millie and her father still live in the old cottage at Chormouth, but there are rumours abroad that a certain young farmer in the neighbourhood has asked her to become his wife and that she has consented.
So there are changes in store for Millie. But after all, it will still be home, for her father will be near her; and from the windows of the farmhouse in which she will live can be seen two graves in a corner of the churchyard, those of her mother and her brother. A marble stone, placed there by Mrs. Bethune, stands between the two. It bears the name of both, and below are the words so full of memory to Millie—
"WE LOVE HIM BECAUSE HE FIRST LOVED US."
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PRINTED AT THE OTTO WORKSFETTER LANE, LONDON.JAMES BEVERIDGE, MANAGER.