CHAPTER X.

GOING HOME.

"We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept ebbing to and fro.

"Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

"For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early show'rs;
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours."-HOOD.

VER since that terrible mutiny, it had
been feared by Colonel Ogilvie that his

golden-haired girl would not be with him much longer. He consulted an eminent physician, who shook his head with a sad look which seemed to say, "Only a question of

time; sooner or later it must be." So he knew that not much longer would she bear her cross of suffering; for the little frame was worn out, and the little spirit was weary. It was not one of those fearful, sudden strokes so terribly common in the East. She was not cut down by the ravages of cholera, or some other virulent disease. Quietly but almost daily did we see her become feebler and more frail. Her face was very beautiful, but when you looked on it you saw that it was not a face that would continue here; it had an unearthly beauty, and the soft blue eyes a yearning look that impressed you sorrowfully.

But Grace, though frail and fading, smiled whenever asked if she were ill. To her, death was indeed but going home. And thus she tried to comfort her father, and even to remind him of all he himself had taught her.

One night she seemed much worse, and her papa sat beside her through the darkness, as she lay gasping and panting on her little bed; and on he sat until the grey dawn broke in the east. He thought she slept; but she opened her eyes, and said slowly,

"Papa, I feel very weak; lift me up a little."

He raised her so that she could look out of

the open window upon her favourite flowers in the garden below. They had been asleep through the night, but were just waking up and sleepily opening their golden eyes to the horizontal rays of the early sun. The hush of night seemed still upon the earth, and the fragrance of the blossoms descended on the soft and gentle breeze. Away in the distance lay the river, rolling restlessly in a neverceasing flow. Her eyes rested for a few moments upon the scene, and she seemed to drink in the beauties as though this were to be her last look of earth. In that glance did she think of the amaranthine flowers of the better land? Did the river bring to her mind the dark and sluggish waters of that river we all must cross? As the morning dawn revealed the rising slopes of the farther bank stretching far away, dim and distant, yet calm and still, did she think of that Canaan beyond the river of death, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest"?

Suddenly a golden stream of light flooded the whole river, and made its miniature waves dance and leap again for very joy, and there lay a broad golden pathway leading right towards the rising sun. Did she see a symbol of the Saviour's love, that sends a golden

pathway all adown the dark river of death, a pathway that leads straight up to the home of God?

Wearied with the slight exertion, she fell back on the pillow, and looked up into her papa's face. Well, well he knew that look; he had seen it once before and only once. It was the yearning, wistful glance of a parting soul. It was the last look his dying wife had given him, and which he now saw on the face of his child.

"Poor papa!" she whispered; "all alone." The blue eyes closed, the hand he had held fell back on the bed, and the figure assumed the appearance of sleep. Softly he sat down beside her; he feared to move lest she should be disturbed. He thought she slept, and that sleep would do her good.

Sitting there, he fell into a reverie. He pictured to himself what his life would be when she, the sunlight of his home, was gone.

Her words, "All alone," seemed to ring in his ears like a funeral dirge, for they were the death-knell of his hopes and joys.

He was aroused by the entrance of the doctor, a grave, quiet, and a kind man.

"She is asleep," whispered Colonel Ogilvie, as he shook his hand. Dr. Wood advanced to

the side of the bed; something in the sleeper's look made him bend his head nearer to hers. He took her hand, he felt her pulse, and then his kind, grave eyes turned to the father with a pitying look, and he rose and laid his hand kindly on his shoulder.

"She will never awake in this world," he said solemnly. "She is dead."

Thus the soul of Gracie Ogilvie, freed from all earthly fetters, ascended on angelic wings to that eternal home where, amid celestial choirs, she need sing no longer of a "land far, far away;" for there, beside the river of life and the rainbow-compassed throne, she sings the song of "Hallelujah; for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.'

On that monument in Davenham Churchyard was added another name: