"I think theirs will be the radiant habitations, and the swift
obedience of the seraphim. They will know and love and work, as do
the angels."
"In middle life," said Elizabeth, "heaven seems farther away from us."
"True, my sister. At midday the workman may think of the evening, but
it is his work that chiefly I engrosses him. Not that the Christian
ever forgets God in his labor, but he needs to be on the alert, and
to keep every faculty busy. But when the shades of evening gather,
he begins to think of going home, and of the result of his labor."
"In middle life, too, death amazes us. In the moment of hearing of
such a death I always found my heart protest against it. But as I grow
older I can feel that all the cords binding to life grow slack. How
will it be at the end?"
"I think as soon as heaven is seen, we shall tend toward it. We will
not go away in sadness, dear sister; we shall depart in the joy of
his salvation. If I was by your side, I should not say, "Farewell;"
I should speak of our meeting again."
Then he went away, and Elizabeth, with a happy face, drew her chair
to the open window of her room and lifted her work. It was a piece
of silken patch-work, made of dresses and scarfs and sashes, that each
had a history in her memory. There were circles from Phyllis's and
her own wedding dresses, one from a baby sash of her son Charles.
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