And as they pray together, it seems almost as if the spirit of the little lost one was hovering round the group.So they pass away:
friends, kindred, the dearest-loved, grown people, aged, infants.
As we go on the down-hill journey, the mile-stones are grave-stones, and on each more and more names are written; unless haply you live beyond man's common age, when friends have dropped off, and, tottering, and feeble, and unpitied, you reach the terminus alone.
In this past year's diary is there any precious day noted on which you have made a new friend? This is a piece of good fortune bestowed but grudgingly on the old.After a certain age a new friend is a wonder, like Sarah's child.Aged persons are seldom capable of bearing friendships.Do you remember how warmly you loved Jack and Tom when you were at school; what a passionate regard you had for Ned when you were at college, and the immense letters you wrote to each other? How often do you write, now that postage costs nothing? There is the age of blossoms and sweet budding green: the age of generous summer; the autumn when the leaves drop;and then winter, shivering and bare.Quick, children, and sit at my feet: for they are cold, very cold: and it seems as if neither wine nor worsted will warm 'em.
In this past year's diary is there any dismal day noted in which you have lost a friend? In mine there is.I do not mean by death.
Those who are gone, you have.Those who departed loving you, love you still; and you love them always.They are not really gone, those dear hearts and true; they are only gone into the next room:
and you will presently get up and follow them, and yonder door will close upon YOU, and you will be no more seen.As I am in this cheerful mood, I will tell you a fine and touching story of a doctor which I heard lately.About two years since there was, in our or some other city, a famous doctor, into whose consulting-room crowds came daily, so that they might be healed.Now this doctor had a suspicion that there was something vitally wrong with himself, and he went to consult another famous physician at Dublin, or it may be at Edinburgh.And he of Edinburgh punched his comrade's sides; and listened at his heart and lungs; and felt his pulse, I suppose; and looked at his tongue; and when he had done, Doctor London said to Doctor Edinburgh, "Doctor, how long have I to live?" And Doctor Edinburgh said to Doctor London, "Doctor, you may last a year."Then Doctor London came home, knowing that what Doctor Edinburgh said was true.And he made up his accounts, with man and heaven, Itrust.And he visited his patients as usual.And he went about healing, and cheering, and soothing and doctoring; and thousands of sick people were benefited by him.And he said not a word to his family at home; but lived amongst them cheerful and tender, and calm, and loving; though he knew the night was at hand when he should see them and work no more.
And it was winter time, and they came and told him that some man at a distance--very sick, but very rich--wanted him; and, though Doctor London knew that he was himself at death's door, he went to the sick man; for he knew the large fee would be good for his children after him.And he died; and his family never knew until he was gone, that he had been long aware of the inevitable doom.
