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“What man is there that liveth and shall not
see death?” The import of these words comes
home at some time or other to every bosom.
Some think of death at a moment of sudden
alarm, in seasons of sickness, or in the silent
watches of the night, when the ministry of the
senses is suspended, and the consciousness of
mortality presses on the spirit. But should not the thought of death be associated with the
necessary pursuits and cheerful occupations of
life? Not introduced, like the skeleton at the
Egyptian feasts, to mingle gloom with gayety, but
to give a just coloring and weight to the affairs
of life by enabling us to estimate them in relation
to this great circumstance of existence, habitually
to associate life with immortality, — all
action here with accountability and retribution
hereafter.

If a heathen, to whom the grave was still
wrapped in silence and darkness, could, from the

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mere consideration that death was inevitable,
be supposed to await it with firmness, what
ought we to expect from the Christian, for whom
life and immortality have been brought to light, —
who believes that there is a place prepared for
him in his Father's house?

Does he believe that death is but a brief passage,
a “circumstance” of life? that there is no
death to those who believe in Jesus? that the
mortal shall put on immortality? that death shall
be swallowed up in victory? If these are not
words, but articles of faith, why does death bring
such dismay and gloom into the home of the
Christian? If Jesus were now to appear to his
disciples, would he not have much reason to say
to them, “O ye of little faith”?

Early in the autumn following the marriage of
his children, Mr. Barclay returned from his usual
daily walk to the village post-office with a letter
in his hand. His face indicated anxiety and
sorrow. Every eye was fixed on him for explanation.
He gave the letter to Mrs. Barclay, and
turning to the children said, “Your brother
Charles is ill with a fever.”

“Very ill, father?”

“Yes. Effie; and he had been so for ten days
when the letter was written.”

“O father! and we have all been so happy
when Charles perhaps was” — “dying,” she
would have said, but there are words hard to
apply to those whose lives seem to be a portion of
our own.

“Do not you think, Effie, it would have

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grieved Charles to have abated one particle of your
happiness?”

“O yes, it would, father, Charles always
loved to have us glad, and never sorry, and he
always made us glad. But we shall never be glad
again if he dies.”

“Never, Effie?” Her father took her on his
knee. “And what would Charles think, if we
never could be happy because it had pleased our
heavenly Father to take him a little before us to
heaven?”

“I don't know, sir, what people think in
heaven, but I know what we feel on earth. Do
you think he will die, father?” she added very
softly, and laying her cheek to her father's.

“I fear he must, my child.” The children
whose eyes were on their father, as if awaiting a
sentence of life or death, could no longer restrain
their tears Mary and her mother were eagerly
reading the letter. They too thought Charles must
die, and when they had read through the physician's
statement, and saw at the end of it, “God's
will be done,” written almost illegibly in Charles's
hand, Mary hid her face on her mother's heaving
bosom. Mr. Barclay took the letter and showed
the line to the younger children. “Let us, too,
my dear children, try honestly to say `God's will
be done.' Let us all bow down before our
Father in heaven, and ask Him to give us the
spirit of obedience and faith, that we may quietly
submit to his holy will.” They all gathered
around him, and as they knelt with him they
caught the spirit of his expressions of trust, —

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they felt what it was to be the children of light,
and not of darkness, — of the light from heaven
which shines through the gospel of Christ.

Two days must pass before farther intelligence
could be received. In the mean time the sad
news spread through Greenbrook, and a general
sympathy pervaded the little community. Charles's
gracious qualities had commended him to all
hearts, and each family felt as if it were menaced
with a calamity. When the stage-coach arrived,
by which, as all knew, news must come from
Charles, and Mr. Barclay was seen riding towards
the post-office, many an eager and tearful eye
followed him. “The mail is not opened, sir,”
said the post-master. By this time several persons
had left their business, and were approaching
to get the first intelligence “O that I could
get my letter and be away with it,” thought Mr.
Barclay, reluctant, as every delicate person is,
to betray emotion before observers. He was recalled
to his better feelings.

“Shall I hold your horse for you, Mr. Barclay?”
asked a voice almost for the first time
low and gentle.

“Thank you, Dow,” he replied; and giving
him the bridle, he dismounted. Dow was a demioutlaw,
who lived on the outskirts of Greenbrook.
Every man's face was set against him, and his
against every man except Charles Barclay. And
why was he an exception? “Charles,” he said,
“had treated him like a human creature, had
done him many a good turn, and had many a
laugh with him;” and now Dow had come from

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his mountain-hut, and stood with his rifle in his
hand, and his shaggy cur at his side, awaiting
the first breath of news from Charles.

“What are you standing there for?” said the
post-master to a little girl on the door-step, “you
are in my light, child.”

“Mother wants to know, sir, what 's in the
letter.” “Mother” was the widow Ely, to whom
Charles had done many an unforgotten kindness.

“He 's got a letter, has not he?” exclaimed
old blind Palmer, whose quick ear caught the
breaking of the seal. “Hush, Meddler!” he
added, laying his hand on the head of the sagacious
little terrier Charles had given him, and
eagerly listening for the first word that should be
uttered. Mr. Barclay devoured the contents of
the letter at a glance, then threw it on the table,
mounted his horse, and galloped homeward.

“He is dead!” exclaimed one.

“I do not believe it,” said another.

“He has left the letter.” “He has left it for
us to read,” was the natural conclusion. They
did accordingly read the few lines announcing
that the fever had reached its crisis and the
patient was convalescing; and they were just
about to say “how strangely Mr. Barclay had
acted,” when they felt their voices broken by
their own emotions, and they realized how much
more difficult it might be to control an unexpected
joy, than a grief painfully prepared for.

After this came regular and encouraging accounts
from Charles; but the first letter from
himself, written with apparent effort, and at long

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intervals, checked their hopes. He expressed
with manly piety his deep gratitude for the experience
of his sickness. Over and over again,
he thanked his parents for his religious education.
He said that a tranquil reliance on the
mercy of God, and faith in the immortality revealed
by Christ and assured by his resurrection,
had never, for a moment, forsaken him. He had
but one inextinguishable earthly desire, and that
was to see home. “Home and Heaven, blended
together in his thoughts by day and his dreams by
night.” The letter was filled with the most tender
longings for a sight of his mother's face, —
his father, and each brother and sister, were
named in the most endearing language.

Soon after came a letter informing them that
symptoms of a rapid consumption had appeared,
which no longer admitted a doubt as to the termination
of the disease, and that he had determined
immediately to make an effort to reach
home. He intended to embark the next day for
New Orleans, whence he should go to New York,
where he hoped to meet his parents. The letter
indicated perfect firmness and tranquillity of mind.
It contained his wishes as to the disposition of his
effects. Some memorial was allotted to each member
of the family, not forgetting Martha and Biddy;
and some poor Greenbrook friends were remembered
by bequests adapted to their necessities.

At the end of a few weeks he arrived at New
York, where his parents were awaiting him, and
whence they conveyed him by slow stages to
Greenbrook. For the last few miles he was

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borne on a litter. His father, Wallace, and
Harry Norton aiding to carry, or walking beside
him, till his eyes rested on his beloved home,
where, on every side, were traces of his tasteful
and diligent hand.

Mary, with thoughtful care, had arranged his
room precisely as he left it. When they laid
him on his bed, no emotion was visible save a
slight fluttering at his heart. His face was
placid, and from his eye, which literally glowed,
there came “holy revealings.” He was alone with
his brother. “O Wallace,” he said, raising his
eye gratefully to Him who had granted his last
earthly prayer, “how pleasant it is to be here!
How I longed for this! O home, home! Open
wide those blinds, Wallace,” — he pointed to the
east window opposite his bed. “Now raise my
head and let it rest on your breast. I always
loved to look on those hills when the sun was
going down!”

It was one of those moments in the harmonies
of nature, when the outward world seems to
answer to the spirit. The valley was in deep
shadow, while the summit of the hills, rich with
the last softened, serious tints of autumn, was
lighted, — kindled, with the rays of the sun.
“The falling leaf! and the setting sun!” said
Charles, without expressing in words the relation
to his own condition so manifest. “Is it not
beautiful, Wallace?”

“Yes, very beautiful!” faintly echoed Wallace,
his eye fixed on his brother's pale, serene
brow, where it seemed to him there was a more

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beautiful light, — light from Heaven. As Wallace
gently rested his cheek on that brow, what a
contrast in the two faces, and yet what harmony!
His was rich with health and untouched vitality.
His eyes were suffused with tears, his brow contracted,
and his lips compressed with the effort
to subdue his struggling feelings. The beautiful
coloring of health had long and for ever forsaken
Charles. His cheeks were sunken, and there
were dark shadows in their cavities; but there
was an ineffable sweetness, a something like the
repose of satisfied infancy on his lips, and such
tranquillity on his smooth brow, that it seemed as
if the seal of eternal peace were set there. A
tear fell from Wallace's cheek on his. Charles
faintly smiled, and looking up he said, “Why are
you troubled, my dear brother? I am not, — kiss
me, Wallace. Thank God, dear brother, our
hearts have never been divided, — and yet we
were tried.”

“You were, — you were, Charles!” Wallace's
voice in spite of his efforts was choked.

“Well, Wallace, if you have children, bring
them up in that strict family love in which we
were brought up. `God is love,' and wherever
love is, there cannot be strifes and envyings.”

After a night of as much repose as could be
obtained in Charles's circumstances, and made
sweet to him by the sense of being under his
father's roof, each member of the family was
admitted to his apartment.

“This is too much happiness!” he said, as he
welcomed one after another to his bedside.

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He was too weak for sustained conversation;
but some seasonable, and never to be forgotten
word, he uttered at intervals. And inquiries were
to be made about the condition of the garden, and
the grounds, and the affairs of the Greenbrook
neighbourhood, all evincing that there was nothing
in his past pursuits and interests discordant
with his present circumstances. He wished his
sisters to bring in their work-baskets, (“I cannot
spare your hand, mother,” he said, pressing his
lips to it when he made the request,) that he
might see them at their usual employments, and
have more completely the feeling of being at
home.

This was the first time that death had come into
Mr. Barclay's habitation. He was received, not
as an enemy, but as an expected friend, — as the
messenger of God. The affections were not
cooled nor abated, (was this ever the effect of
religion?) and therefore their countenances were
sad, and their hearts sorrowful; but it was sorrow
without bitterness or repining. The visible domestic
chain was for the first time to be broken,—
a precious link for a time severed. The event
was attended with peculiar disappointment to Mr.
Barclay. Without favoritism there is often, perhaps
always, a closer tie to one child than to another.
There was a perfect sympathy between
Charles and his father. Their minds seemed
cast in the same mould. They had the same
views and purposes in life, — the same resolute,
steady application of their theories. Mr. Barclay
had relied on Charles to be the guide and

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support of his younger children. But God had ordered
it otherwise, and he submitted, as a Christian
should submit, in the spirit of love and of a
sound mind.

For two days Charles's disease seemed to be
suspended, and the energies of nature to be
called forth by moral causes; but on the third
day he appeared to be rapidly sinking away.
He could now only endure an upright position.
His head rested on his mother's bosom. Little
Effie, who read truly the fixed and intense looks
of the family, but who could not imitate their
calmness, shrunk behind her mother sobbing
aloud.

“Come here, Effie,” said her brother; “why
do you cry?”

“Because Charles” — she could not speak the
rest.

“Because I must die, Effie?”

“Yes,” she faintly answered.

“It is not hard to die, dear Effie, — not if we
love God, not if we believe the promises of Christ.
Come closer, Effie, I cannot speak loud; I am
going home, to a home like this, for love is there;
to a better home than this, for there, there is
neither sickness nor sorrow —”

“Rest now, my dear son,” said the tender
mother, as Charles paused from exhaustion and
closed his eyes.

“First, mother, let me tell Effie what is best of
all in that home. There is no sin there, Effie.”

“O, Charles, you never did any thing wrong
here.”

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“My dear little sister, I have done and felt
much that was wrong, and it is because I know
our God is a God of forgiveness and tender mercy,
that I hope to be accepted of Him. Kiss me
Effie, — be a good girl, and when you come to lie
on a sick bed you will have a great many pleasant
thoughts. Mary, my dear sister, do not grieve so,—
we shall very soon meet again. Alice, one
last word, my sister, — do not give your heart too
much to the world. Emily, my dear sister too,
we shall be one family in heaven.”

These and a few more short sentences (ever
after treasured in faithful hearts) Charles uttered
at long intervals; then, after a short pause, he
said, “I am very weak, — father, lay your hand
upon my breast, here, — what does this mean?”

His father perceived the tokens of dissolution;
“It is death, my dear child,” he replied.

Wallace offered to take his mother's place; —
“No,” said Charles, “my head is easiest on
mother's bosom; mother, you are not afraid to see
me die?”

“O, no, no, my son.”

“Nor am I afraid to die, mother; God hath
redeemed my soul from the power of the grave.
Father, pray with us.”

All felt their weakness, and the necessity for a
stronger than a human arm to lean upon, and they
bowed themselves in supplication to their Father
in heaven, as children in trouble fly to the arms
of their parents. The demands of the soul at
such a moment are pressing and few. They were
briefly expressed by the tender parent in the

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language of Scripture, — in words that in great exigences
are felt to convey the oracles of God.

“Thank you, dear father,” said Charles, “I
am better for this.” He looked around on each
one of the family and said, “It is hard parting,—
but there is sweet peace here.”

His voice had become more indistinct, and his
spirit seemed to rise from the home where it lingered
to that which awaited it. His lips still
moved as if in prayer. Suddenly he raised both
hands and said clearly, “Thanks be to God who
giveth —” the bodily organs were too feeble for
the parting soul. His father finished the sentence;
“Thanks be to God, who giveth us the
victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Charles bowed his head. A few moments longer
they watched his ebbing life, and he was gone,
gently as a child falls asleep on its mother's bosom.
A deep, holy silence followed. It seemed
as if all heard the voice of God, “It is I, be not
afraid.”

But then came the mortal feeling, the sense of
separation, the poignant anguish of the parting
stroke, and sighs and tears broke forth. They
laid their cheeks to his, they kissed his forehead,
his hands, sobbing, “Charles! — dear, blessed
brother!”

The mother sat motionless, her son's head still
resting on her bosom. She could not bear to
change this last manifestation of his love to her.
Mr. Barclay gently disengaged him from her
arms, and laid him on the pillow, saying as he did
so, “He was our first-born!”

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