Convalescence [pp. 302-304]

T,iE LADIES' REPOSITORY.
relinquish the place which she had held for fifty
years at the head of her family. She knew how
the heart of her husband trusted in her, and
how he would miss her society and her accustomed attentions, and she had prayed that her
life and health might be continued as long as
hle should need her love. But the stroke of
God is upon her. The limbs, which have been
so active in their errands of mercy, are paralyzed-the hands, always busy, must rest from
their labors —hardest of all, the faltering tongue
can with difficulty express the thoughts and
feelings which occupy and interest her. But
she does not murmur. The cheerful, playful
humor which had always given to her society a
peculiar charm for her children, does not forsake her now. It often breaks through all the
restraints of the sick-room, and calls smiles to
the sympathizing faces of those bending over
her, when otherwise her sufferings would cause
their tears to flow. But no natural cheerfulness
could have triumphed over the many months of
weariness and pain allotted to her. The God
in whom she had placed the hope of her youth
draws near, puts underneath her his everlasting
arms, gives support in all her trials, and the
assurance of their glorious termination. Her
husband still finds much pleasure in her society,
and his ministrations to her are very tender.
Early and late he is at her bedside-but-the
old clock is measuring off his last days. Unseen there steals over the threshold a messenger, who has not entered that door before for
more than forty years-"a messenger who never
returns alone." And the summons is for him.
He receives it calmly, and prepares to obey the
call. Once more the finger of the old clock
points to the hour of prayer, and languid and
trembling as he is, he can not lie down without
committing himself and his family to the care
of Israel's Shepherd. He lingers with even
more than his accustomed tenderness at the
side of his wife. No word is spoken, as they
throw their arms around each other in close
embrace, and exchange the prolonged kiss.
But they look unutterable thiings. Each feels
that it is the last farewell till they greet each
other in their Father's house above. Another
night-she is a widow and their children fatherless. Now she feels that the strongest tie to
earth is broken, and she would gladly "be absent from the body and present with the Lord."
But the clock must tick on another whole year
before her mortality shall be swallowed up of
life. Many a lesson of faith, and hope, and
patience is learned at her bedside during those
last months. It is pleasant to see how her
children love to gather there, and by their in
creased attention strive to fill the sad void in
her heart.
Morning by morning her manly sons are seen
bending over her to receive her kiss and benediction, before they seek their places of business. The youngest could less frequently be
there, but there was a glad light in the eyes of
the aged mother whenever she could fold him
in her arms, and her faith grew stronger, as the
voice of her "Benjamin" repeated the gracious
promises in her ear, and offered fervent supplication that God would verify them all to her.
The clock ticks on-hour by hour, day by day,
till all are numbered-till the last pang is suffered, the long struggle over. She lies by the
side of the companion of her pilgrimage, the
old home is forsaken, and the dwelling no longer
knows parents or children. But the memories
lingering around the old clock are too pleasant
and too sacred for it to be allowed to pass into
the hands of strangers. Now it stands where
the eyes of one of the sons rest upon it, as the
light of each new day dawns, and its "ticktick-tick" is the last sound in his ears when
the light has faded, and he is reminded that he
stands one post nearer the end of his journey.
Yes-it is the same old clock, associated with
all the days of the past, its finger steadily pointing forward, while it is counting off the days of
the children, as it has counted the days of the
father. B-ut when its voice shall be silent, we
will believe that the happy group of the early
home will all be gathered in the better and the
heavenly.
CONVALESCENCE.
EST after toil is sweet, but there is some thing far sweeter in rest from pain. One
-t- can scarcely know the full delicious meaning of that word until, after days and nights of
anguish, the poor body racked and tortured with
a thousand pangs, he feels at last that they are
gone-all gone-that he has nothing now to do
but enjoy the blissful quietude from pain, and
gather slowly to himself again the scattered
pearls of life, and health, and strength. You
know all about it, do n't you, gentle reader? In
what a quiet, happy trance you lie, and how
pleasant is the confused murmur of sounds that
reaches you from the other rooms, where life is
at flood tide. Perhaps you hear some one singing in the distance, and dream yourself in
heaven. You are strictly enjoined not to think
of any thing that will annoy or fret you, so you
let the cares of life slip from you, with the whole
burden of the wants and woes of humanity, yet
do not accuse yourself of indolence or selfish
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