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is an odd mystery.
He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to the
singing, which floated in clearly through the open window at right
angles with the back windows of the hospital. Neither of them knew
what the hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse as
if even the tinies were joining in it was quite audible to Luke
Raeburn and his daughter,
Through life's long day, and death's dark night, Oh, gentle Jesus,
be our light.
Erica's breath came in gasps. To be reminded then that life was
long and that death was dark!
She thought she had never prayed, she had never consciously prayed,
but her whole life for the past three years had been an unspoken
prayer. Never was there a more true desire entirely unexpressed
than the desire which now seemed to possess her whole being. The
darkness would soon hide forever the being she most loved. Oh, if
she could but honestly think that He who called Himself the Light
of the world was indeed still living, still ready to help!
But to allow her distress to gain the mastery over her would
certainly disturb and grieve her father. With a great effort she
stifled the sobs which would rise in her throat, and waited in
rigid stillness. When the last notes of the hymn had died away
into silence, she turned to look at her father. He had fallen
asleep.
Glory to God to God! he saith,
Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And life is perfected by death. E. B. Browning
Mr. Raeburn is curiously like the celebrated dog of nursery lore,
who appertained to the ancient and farfamed Mother Hubbard. All
the doctors gave him up, all the secularists prepared mourning
garments, the printers were meditating black borders for the
'IdolBreaker,' the relative merits of burial and cremation were
already in discussion, when the dog we beg pardon the leader of
atheism, came to life again.
'She went to the joiners to buy him a coffin,
But when she came back the dog was laughing.'
History, as a great man was fond of remarking, 'repeats itself.'
Raeburn laughed heartily over the accounts of his recovery in the
comic papers. No one better appreciated the very clever
representation of himself as a huge bulldog starting up into life
while Britannia in widow's weeds brought in a parish coffin. Erica
would hardly look at the thing; she had suffered too much to be
able to endure any jokes on the subject, and she felt hurt and
angry that what had given her such anguish should be turned into a
foolish jest.
At length, after many weeks of weary anxiety, she was able to
breathe freely once more, for her father steadily regained his

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