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Basket of Flowers, The

CHAPTER XI. MARY'S GREAT LOSS. When at last Mary could no longer hide from herself the seriousness of her father's illness, she went to the minister of the parish in which Pine Cottage was situated and asked him to come and visit him. The minister, who was a kind-hearted and godly man, gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Besides conversing with James on spiritual matters, he was of great comfort to Mary by the kindly affection with which he treated her. One afternoon when the old man's weakness was sensibly increased, James requested Mary to leave the room for a moment that he might have private conversation with the minister. After a little while, he called her in again, and said— "My dear child, I have settled all my worldly affairs, and am now ready to depart and be with Christ." Mary was deeply distressed, and had great difficulty in keeping back her tears, for she saw that the end was rapidly approaching. But out of consideration for her father, and after a great effort, she recovered herself, and remained calm. The rest of the day was spent by James in silent prayer, and next day he received the Lord's Supper at the hands of the minister, by partaking of the bread and wine which are the symbols of the body and blood of Christ. Faith in the power of God, love to Christ who had redeemed him, and hope of eternal life, had made his venerable countenance radiant with happiness. Mary remained on her knees beside his bed, weeping and praying. The farmer and his wife and their household looked on in wonder at the rapture of the aged saint, and tears of sympathy were in every eye because of Mary's grief. It gave the old man pleasure to have Mary read to him in her sweet and clear voice. During the latter part of his illness he desired to hear nothing else than the last words and prayer of Jesus. One night, after all the household had gone to bed, Mary was sitting beside her father. The moon was shining so brightly into the room that the light of the candle was scarcely seen. "Mary," said the dying man, "read me once again that beautiful prayer of our Saviour." Mary began to read. "Now," said the old man, "give me the book." Mary gave him the book, and carried the light nearer to him. "This will be the last prayer," said her father, "that I shall make for you," as he marked the passage with his finger, then in a trembling voice he uttered the following prayer: "O Father, I have not long to remain in this world. I am going—I dare hope it—I am going to Thee, my heavenly Father. Oh, preserve this my child from sin, for Thy Name's sake. While I have lived on the earth, I have endeavoured in Thy name to preserve her from it. But, O Lord, I am now going to Thee. I do not ask Thee to take her to Thyself, but only to preserve her from harm. Let Thy holy truth preserve her. Thy word is truth. Grant, O heavenly Father, that the child whom Thou hast given me may at last be admitted to the place where I hope to go. Through Jesus Christ my Saviour. Amen." Mary repeated, as well as her sobs would allow her, her father's Amen. "Yes," continued the old man, "yes, my daughter, in the kingdom which Jesus had from the beginning of the world, we shall see Him, and we shall see each other." He again lay down on his pillow to rest a little. His hands continued to hold the New Testament, which he had bought with his first money saved from the purchase of food after he left Eichbourg. "Dear daughter," he said, some minutes afterwards, "I am grateful for all the affection and tenderness which you have shown me since my illness commenced. Trust in your heavenly Father, Mary, and you will receive of Him your reward. Poor and forsaken as I am, I can give you nothing, when I leave you, but my blessing and this book. Live in the ways of righteousness, and this blessing will not be without effect. The blessing of a father with the confidence of the Lord is better for a virtuous child than the richest inheritance. This book, which I wish you to take in remembrance of your father, cost me, it is true, but a few shillings, but if it be faithfully read and its precepts put in practice, I shall have left you the richest treasure. If I had left you as many pieces of gold as the spring produces leaves and flowers, with all that money you could not buy anything so valuable as this book. It is the Word of God. Read it every day, no matter how much work presses upon you; read at least one passage. Preserve it and meditate upon it in your heart during the day." About three o'clock the next morning James said, in a faint voice, "I feel very ill. Open the window a little." Mary opened it. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was brilliant with stars, and presented a magnificent sight. "See how beautiful the sky is!" said the dying man. "What are the flowers of earth whose beauty I have so often admired compared with these stars, whose glory suffers no fading? It is there I am going. What joy! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly." With these words James fell back upon his pillow, and passed peacefully away. Mary had never seen any one die before, and she thought her father had only fainted. In her fright she awoke all the family. They ran to her father's bed, and there she heard them say to each other that he was dead. Abandoning herself to her grief, she threw herself upon her father's body, embraced it, and wept passionately. "Oh, my father, my good father," said she, "how shall I discharge all my obligations to you? Alas, I cannot now. I can only thank you for all the words, for all good advice I received from your dear lips, now sealed in death. Your hand, which is now cold and stiff, I kiss with gratitude, and remember that that hand has bestowed upon me many benefits, and has all my life laboured for my good. Oh, if I could at this moment follow you into the heavenly kingdom, how gladly would I do so. Oh, let me die the death of the righteous. My only consolation now is that I shall one day enter upon the happiness and everlasting life of heaven." During this heart-rending scene the farmer's family had been much affected. At last they prevailed upon Mary to lie down and rest, hoping that sleep would ease her grief. During the following day nothing would induce her to leave her father's body. Before the coffin lid was nailed down, Mary took one more look at her father. "Alas," said she, "it is the last time that I shall ever look upon your dear face! How beautiful it was when you smiled, and it shone with the glory into which you were so shortly to enter. Farewell, farewell, my father," said she, sobbing aloud, "may your body rest peacefully in the earth now, while angels of God are, as I hope, bearing your soul to eternal rest." When the funeral took place, Mary, dressed in mourning which one of the girls of the village had kindly given her, followed close to the body of her father. She was as pale as death, and every one pitied the poor girl who now was without a relative in the world. As Mary's father was a stranger at Erlenbrunn, they dug a grave for him in a corner of the cemetery beside the wall. Two large pine trees shaded the humble grave. The minister who had attended James during his illness spoke of James's patience and of the resignation with which he had borne all his misfortunes, and the good example he had set for those who knew him. With tender words he consoled Mary, who was overwhelmed with grief. In the name of her father, the minister thanked the farmer and his wife for all their kindness to Mary and her father. He begged of them to be father and mother to her who had no longer any parents.   CHAPTER XII. CHANGES AT PINE FARM. After her father's death, Mary was no longer the bright happy girl she had been before. Even her favourite flowers seemed to have lost all their beauty, and the pine trees near the farm looked as though they were clothed in mourning. From time to time she attended the church at Erlenbrunn; and when here she never failed to visit her father's grave. On every opportunity she went to this sacred spot to weep for her departed parent, and she never left the grave without having made fresh resolutions to ignore the pleasures of the world, and to live only to God. As time went on her grief gradually moderated, but she soon had new trials to undergo. Great changes took place in Pine Farm. The good farmer had given the farm to his only son, an amiable, good-tempered young man, but unhappy in his choice of a wife, whom he had married a short time before. She was a handsome woman, and possessed of considerable means; but she was vain to a degree, and cared for nothing but money. Pride and greed had gradually imprinted on her features an expression of harshness so striking that, with all her beauty, her looks were repellent. She was violently opposed to religion, and was thus without any restraint on her conduct. By every means in her power she sought to make the lives of her husband's parents miserable. If she knew that anything would give them pleasure, she delighted in doing the contrary, and when she gave them the food which was their due, according to the contract they had made with their son, it was always with a bad grace, and in a grudging spirit. The good old man and his wife lived the greater part of their time in a little back room, seldom appearing outside. As for their son, he led a miserable life; for his wife overwhelmed him with constant abuse, and was constantly reminding him of the money she had brought him. Being of a peaceable disposition, and averse to quarrelling and disputing, he bore his sufferings in silence. His wife would never quietly allow him to visit his parents, for fear, as she said, he would give them something secretly. In the evening, after he had finished his work, he used to try to find an opportunity to visit them, when he would complain to them of his hard lot. "Well," said his father, "so it is. You suffered yourself to be dazzled by the thought of her gold, and to be fascinated by her good looks. I yielded too easily to your wishes, and thus we are punished. We should have taken the advice of old James, who was an experienced man and never approved of this match when it was talked of. I well remember every word he said on the subject, and I have thought of it many a time. Do you remember," said he to his wife, "our having said that ten thousand florins make a handsome sum. 'A handsome sum!' said James, 'no; for the flowers you see in your garden are a thousand times more beautiful. Perhaps you mean to say it is a large and heavy sum. I will acknowledge that. He must have good shoulders to bear it without being bowed down to the earth, and without becoming a poor wretch, unable to lift his head to heaven. Why then do you wish for so much money? You have never wanted anything; you have always had more than sufficient. Believe me, too much money produces pride. Rain is a useful and necessary thing, but when too much falls there is danger of it destroying the most healthy plants of the garden.' "These were exactly the old friend's words we have lost," said the farmer, "and I think I still hear him. And you, my son, once said to him of your wife, 'She has a charming person, and is beautiful and fresh as a rose.' 'Flowers,' answered James, 'have not beauty only; they are good and pretty at the same time. They make so many rich presents. The bee sucks in pure wax and delicious honey. Without piety, a beautiful face is merely a rose upon paper, a miserable trifle without life or perfume. It produces neither wax nor honey.' Such were the reflections that James frankly made before us. We would not listen to him—now we know how to appreciate his advice. That which appeared then to us so great a happiness is now to us the height of misfortune. May God give us grace to bear our misfortunes with patience!" Thus the old couple and their son used to talk together. Poor Mary had much to suffer also. The back room which she and her father had occupied was given up to the old couple, and, although there were two empty rooms in the farmhouse, the young farmer's wife, who disliked Mary, gave her the most miserable apartment in the house; beside which, she ill-treated her in every possible way, and loaded her with abuse and fault-finding from morning to night. According to her, Mary did not work enough and did not know how to do anything as it ought to be done. In short, she made it very plain to the poor orphan that she was despised and considered troublesome. The old man and his wife were keenly conscious of the miserable life that Mary led, but they were not in a position to interfere. They had enough to do with their own griefs. Mary thought often of going away from Pine Farm, but where to go was the question. After some consideration she asked the minister's advice. "My dear Mary," said the old minister, "it is impossible for you to think of remaining longer at Pine Farm. They expect you to do more than a strong man could accomplish. Still, I do not advise you to leave immediately. Although your father gave you an excellent education, and taught you all that it was necessary for a village housekeeper to know, my advice would be to remain where you are for the present; to work as faithfully as you can, and to wait patiently until the Lord delivers you from your present hard circumstances. I will endeavour to get you a place in an honest Christian family. Have confidence in God; pray constantly, bear with this trial, and God will arrange all." Mary thanked the good old minister and promised to follow his advice. Mary's favourite place of meditation was her father's tomb, where she had planted a rose tree. "Alas," said she, "if I could remain here always, I would water you with my tears!" The rose tree was already green, and the buds began to open their purple cups. "My father was right," said Mary, "when he compared human life to the rose tree. It offers nothing but thorns; but wait a little and the season will come when it shall be decked anew in foliage and robed in the most beautiful flowers. For me, this is now the time of thorns; but God help me not to be cast down! I believe your word, best of fathers. Perhaps I may see in my life the truth of your favourite maxim—'Patience produces roses.'" Thus poor Mary consoled herself in her distress. <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> "Thou art, O Lord, my only trust, When friends are mingled with the dust, And all my loves are gone. When earth has nothing to bestow, And every flower is dead below, I look to Thee alone." </div> </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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