True Riches | Page 6

on the foot of
the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of her father, for such
was the relation borne to her by the sick man. A lovely creature she
was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of childhood. For a
time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber. A few low-spoken
words had passed between the parents of the child, and then, for a brief
period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This was interrupted, at length,
by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she laid her face upon the bosom
of her husband, so soon to be taken from her, and wept aloud.
No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He
only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his
heart.
The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their depths.

"It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady voice;
"only for a little while."
"I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was laid
against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my time,
but"----
Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her
parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.
Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance.
"God will take care of her. He will raise her up friends," said he quickly;
yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him.
"All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and
mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm.
She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting
hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain
him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her
woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own
sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit of
her husband.
"God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was
striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned
over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of an
angel on her countenance.
"Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?"
was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face.
"A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly.
"He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children."
"Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over
again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower and
lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going

thought found no longer an utterance.
Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all
objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as
death.
"He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from her
reclining position on the bed. "And dear Fanny sleeps also," was added,
as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child.
Two hours later, and the last record was made in Ruben Elder's Book of
Life.
For half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and he
then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain
behind.
"To Leonard Jasper, my old friend," said he to his wife, "I have left the
management of my affairs. He will see that every thing is done for the
best. There is not much property, yet enough to insure a small income;
and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the support
and education of our child."
Peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling into
slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another world.
How Leonard Jasper received the announcement of his executorship
has been seen. The dying man had referred to him as an old friend; but,
as the reader has already concluded, there was little room in his sordid
heart for so pure a sentiment as that of friendship. He, however, lost no
time in ascertaining the amount of property left by Elder, which
consisted of two small houses in the city, and a barren tract of about
sixty acres of land, somewhere in Pennsylvania, which had been taken
for a debt of five hundred dollars. In view of his death, Elder had
wound up his business some months before, paid off what he owed, and
collected in nearly all outstanding accounts; so that little work
remained for his executor, except to dispose of the unprofitable tract of
land