“Father,” she said, “we are but two of us in the world alone--no kindred--no brethren--if we have friends they are strangers; we have none of our own blood. We are two--only two--in this great world alone.” Her father raised his hand in appeal--he feared her entreaties. This trial was the greatest of all--his Lord’s cause and his sole child--how painful was the choice that lay between them. “Only two,” said Edith, with nervous haste. “If thou were taken away, father, ah! then I should rebel against the Lord; my heart would not submit, if my words did. Father, what wouldst thou say in heaven, if thy sole child were shut out for this blasphemy? for I would be alone, alone! Thou hast not thought what a terrible word that is.” “Edith! Edith!” “Listen to me, father. If the Lord called us both home, who would weep for us? who would be tempted to this rebellion because we had fallen asleep? Father, if thou wentest up alone, would not my mother ask thee for her child? Ah! the Lord knoweth, surely the Lord knoweth best; but alone, father, alone, a stranger and an exile, when ye are all in heaven--is this meet?” “Spare me, Edith,” said the minister; “I am vowed to render up all for His cause--all. My people, whom the Lord gave me to watch for their souls night and day, can I let them die, with no man caring for them, no man pointing them to heaven? Remember, Edith! thou hast prayed for them; they are those who shall be my joy and crown if they be brought to righteousness. It is thy grief blindeth thee; think of this.” “I think of it, father. Yea, I see them, stricken down, and no man caring for their souls; stricken down, and no hand to tend them in their sickness. Ah! father, so desolate it must be, that forsaken sick-bed; so forlorn, so miserable, with only pain living there, and the dark death drawing near in the silence, stealing among the shadows. Father, I have a petition to you; let me go to this labor also? I am here only to pine and brood, and forget our Lord, who will not be served in slothfulness, and yonder they are dying who have need of me--even of _me_. Father, I will go also; you will not deny me?” “I feared this,” said the Puritan; “it must not be, Edith; speak not of it again.” “Father, it is not your wont to be more merciful to yourself than to me. I, too--have not I somewhat to answer for in the sight of Him who judgeth righteously. You would have me dwell here in sloth, receiving all mercies and returning no thankful service. But look at me, father, I am strong; I do not fear. We will go together. If He wills it so, we shall return in peace; if He wills it not so, then shall we travel together to his own country in joy. Be it as He wills; I am ready, father. Let us go.” The Puritan was overcome; his voice trembled.