[13] Lev. xix. 32. VII. THE NIGHT BOSWITH DIED. "Thou art not weary, O sweet heart and glad! Ye are not weary, O ye wings of light! Ye are not weary, golden-sandalled feet And eyes lift up in Heaven. Were we with thee, We never should be weary any more. So sleep, sweet love, and waken not for us. Ah! wake not at my cry, which is of earth, For thou these twenty years hast been of Heaven. Still not thy harp for me: I will wail low, That my voice reach thee not beyond the stars. Only wait for me, O my harper! since When thou and I have clasped hands at the gate, We never shall be weary any more." "O Patient! I am very sorry to have kept you up so late as this--I had no idea that you would wait for me!" exclaimed Celia, as, hastening into her bedroom, she found Patient quietly at work beside the fire. "I should have done that, Madam, at whatever hour you had returned," was Patient's answer, as she helped Celia to unclasp her topaz and diamond ornaments, and put them away carefully in their cases. "I thought you were early; my Lady often does not quit her assemblies till day-dawn." "You see," responded Celia, a little apologetically, awaking to the fact that Patient had not expected her for another hour or two, "I am so little accustomed to these things. I never was up at such an hour as this before." "All the better for you, Madam," said Patient, quietly. "You do not like these assemblies?" "I have nothing to do with them, Madam." "But if you had," persisted Celia, looking for Patient's opinion as a sister in the faith. But Patient seemed scarcely willing to impart it. "You command me to answer you, Madam?" she said. "I want to know, Patient," replied Celia, simply. "'What concord hath Christ with Belial?'" answered Patient. "Madam, when I was but a young maid, I looked on the world as divided into many sects--Covenanters, Independents, Prelatists, Anabaptists, and the like, and I fancied that all who were not Covenanters (as I was) must needs be more or less wrong. Methinks I am wiser now. I see the world as divided into two camps only, and the army wherein I serve hath but one rallying-cry. They that believe, and they that believe not--here are the camps, 'What think ye of Christ?'--that is the rallying-cry. I see the Church as a great school, holding many forms and classes, but only one Master. And I think less now of a fellow-scholar sitting on another form from mine, and seeing the other side of the Master's face, if I find that he heareth His voice, and followeth Him. Madam, what think you all those great ladies down-stairs would say, if you asked them that question--'What think ye of Christ?'[1] Poor souls! they never think of Him. And with them in the enemy's camp I have nought to do, so long as they remain there." "But may we not win them over to our side?" queried Celia.