"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark with mortal fear, And the night cometh, chill with dew, O Father, let Thy light break through! So let the hills of doubt divide-- So bridge with faith the sunless tide-- So let the eyes that fail on earth On Thine eternal hills look forth; And, in Thy beckoning angels, know The dear ones whom we loved below." Whittier. This eventful year closed with death. Not a martyr death; God's martyr train was closed in England now, for the last to join it had been Roger Holland. Another kind of death was this. Softly, and tenderly, as He called to Samuel, the Lord came and stood and called her--her who was loved so dearly, whose going out made the world darker. With a "_Talitha cumi_"--a "Come up higher"--He summoned the beloved to the Home where His beloved dwell with Him. And what answer was left for her but "Lord, here am I"? So she spread the angel wings which had been folded, that they could not be seen; and as she soared gladly up into the heavenly light, the darkness of time and of earth thickened around those she left behind. O Lord our Master! Thy voice is very sweet here below. Not only Thy staff, but even Thy rod comforteth; yea, it is with Thy rod that Thou dost feed Thy people. How much sweeter, when as one whom his mother comforteth, so dost Thou comfort us! And sweetest of all it must be, to arise and _go to_ Thee. Wherefore, then, are we so unwilling? What mean we continually to talk of being "spared"--spared from that happy journey, from that heavenly Home! They that are not journeying home are spared indeed: but how faithless, how loveless is it in us to bring up an evil report of the good Land, to show such fear and distance from the forgiving and welcoming Father! "He that is washed needeth only to wash his feet." But, O our Father! the feet of Thy children need a perpetual washing, an hourly dipping in the blessed waters of the Fountain which Thou hast opened for sin and for uncleanness. This was the last entry in Isoult Avery's diary for the year 1558:-- "The Minories, Saint Stephen. "`God knoweth best when His corn is ripe.' "I have been told this to-day, and I need remember it this even. Otherwise, methinks a shower of tears should blot out my writing. I thought that sheaf could be no riper, years ago. The storms had beaten on it, but had not hurt it, and it was very fair; and now it lacked but a season of sunshine, and to that I looked forward in hope. How little did I know that the sunshine was but making it ready for the harvest, meet for Heaven, nearer God! "O my love, my own darling Frances! shall I say it is hard to think of you in Heaven? Shall I say it is hard that, in the stead of your coming to me, I must now go to you? Shall I grieve in the first hour of my hope and England's, that God saw it best to take you gently to Himself, ere that hope could do more than to throw the beam of his rising on your dying pillow?