"Shall we not try hot bricks and hot flannels?" said Oliver.

The doctor said he was perfectly willing to do so. And, as life was flickering, these hot preparations were being applied, with a pleasant sense of relief to the patient, who passed out of life little thinking that the sense of faintness was death. So thousands have died, and will die.

"He is dead!" said Oliver.

It was a sight to see the effort to act with strictest propriety by the widow and children,—not the bereaved, but the endowed. A will, bestowing his wealth upon all manner of charities, was left unexecuted, a discovery made by the widow, who knew of its existence, and feared it was a deed accomplished. This greatly helped to comfort her heart, while it gave an apology to the children to throw aside all pretence of a grief not felt.

The son took Oliver and Frank aside, and offered them the entire caravan, as his father left it, at a great bargain, taking their bills on Babylon. But they did not want the care and trouble of camels; nor did they believe in going to the Celestial City in the mode adopted by this young gentleman's father, who had held a distinguished position, and was a member of a dozen or two great societies, which he designed to endow at the cost of his family; just as if such money, from such men, under such conditions, was likely to be followed by the blessing of God!

But we are getting where the ground trembles like a quagmire under our feet. To go on with our story. Oliver urged the young gentleman to use his fortune, as all true pilgrims did, by aiding the poor, opening wells on the desert, building

THE RICH PILGRIM'S FAMILY.

363

caravansaries, and so do for the world what his father in his pursuit of wealth had failed to do. "In so living, so disbursing the gifts of God's providence," said Oliver, "life will be redeemed from its utter worthlessness, and your usefulness will fit you for higher happiness, the true riches of another world."

66 My dear doctor," said the son, "we children have all our lives been preached to by father about the Celestial City, and our duty of living with a single eye to the salvation of our souls. We have been kept moving about from oasis to oasis, gathering up riches; of their worth to us we know nothing as yet from experience. We shall sell our caravan at the next oasis, and return by railroad to Babylon direct; and when there we shall see if there is not less vanity and vexation of soul in spending money than there was to our pious father in getting it. We thank you for your skill, doctor, and regret to leave you; but our camels will be on the move at the end of an hour." With kind wishes our pilgrims and their wives took leave of them.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE DEATH OF A POOR PILGRIM.

THAT afternoon they reached a desolation, which was once a caravansary, destroyed, doubtless, by conflicts of parties, and never rebuilt. It wore the appearance of a shattered, dis

mantled house; but, then, it could be used in a stress of weather, for the roof was still over it. There was coming over the desert a heavy storm of wind and rain, which induced the Trueman party to find a shelter in this ruin. They were well provided for; their wallets and water-bottles were full, and even a night spent there would not be a great hardship.

On reaching the ruined house, they looked in; but it was far from being attractive, for the heaps of sand made it less pleasant than the open air. As the clouds came driving on, Gertrude went in, wandering from room to room, when, to her astonishment, in a little room, in better preservation than the larger ones, she saw sleeping upon a pallet in the corner a poor pilgrim who had helped out his covering by drawing a dilapidated door over him, which was propped up from resting on him by a short stick. His pale face and gentle respiration showed he was sleeping with all the peacefulness of childhood. His Guidebook and wallet and bottle lay at the side of a pillow made of straw and leaves. Gertrude was alarmed, and drew back. But what was there to alarm her? Nothing. She therefore came in on tiptoe, and carefully looked at the sick man, and then called Oliver and Frank and Annie. As they came in and sat down, watching him, a smile of affection played over his face, showing the happy innocency of his dreams. Then he muttered words, and Annie knelt over him to catch those sounds. She could only distinguish the words "mother," . . . . "Mary," when a deep-drawn sigh came up from his breast, the tears trickled down his cheeks, and he woke. His look wandered from Annie to Gertrude, who knelt at his side, with little or no expression of recognition in the eyes, which, at first, lacked

THE PILGRIM OF THE SLOUGH DESPOND.

365

lustre; but, gradually, as his consciousness came, a look of surprise and recognition was upon his face and in his eyes. Gertrude assured him they were there to do him good. He smiled, but could not speak. Oliver felt of his pulse; it was intermitting and feeble. He gave him some water, but he could swallow only a little and with difficulty; food he could not take.

"What shall we do for you?" asked Annie, as she knelt at his side. He looked at her with a speaking earnestness, but could not speak. "Shall we sing to you?"

"Sing! sing!" And they sang "Jesus, lover of my soul," and his eyes grew brighter and brighter, until they shone in a blaze of light. When they had ceased, Annie sang what she was wont to call "The Song of the Slough ;" and, when she had ended, the eye of the dying man showed a longing earnestness of desire to speak. She bowed her ear to his lips, and he faintly whispered: . . "I feared I should. . die. . alone; .. but

you are

Annie looked up to her husband, and, in a tone of surprise exclaimed, "It is our pilgrim of the Slough!" At once they knelt around him. A smile was on his face; his eyes, beaming gladness, closed, to open on the scenes and sorrows of time no

more.

There was nothing to tell who lay before them. In his Guidebook was written the name of a female; but they could only make out the first name, " MARY," and underneath, these words:

"The early lost the long deplored."

VOL. II.

31*

CHAPTER LXIX.

OUR PILGRIMS REACH THE BORDERS OF THE DESERT.

OUR pilgrims had now come where the desert ceased, and valleys and mountains commenced. These were deeper and higher, as day by day they pressed forward, warning them that they were approaching their journey's end. Sometimes the pathway was hard to climb, but always easier in the realization than the anticipation. It was wonderful what elevations they attained, and what depths they explored, aided by a habit they had acquired, as the result of all their travel, never to look beyond the path present, whether in descending or ascending. Sometimes, when they had climbed to the summit-level of a range of mountains, they thought they obtained glimpses of the glorious City of God.

At such times they sat down and rested with great delight, and talked cheerfully of the life they should lead when safe across the Jordan. Ah, if there were no Jordan to cross, how much they would have been inspirited! Though there were no more of those oases in their pathway, yet the air was purer, -the water, cold and clear, came glittering down from rocky summits, or gushing up among the rocks at the sides of the way. And, then, the caravansaries were well kept. There were no "architects of ruin" here. The pilgrims who traversed these regions had ceased the conflicts of the desert. Now, the pilgrimage was, with each and all, a serious, calm, continuous purpose to reach an end, and to leave the path smoother