THE CLOSE OF THE PILGRIMAGE. “The foundation upon which the city was framed was higher than the clouds; they therefore went up through the regions of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted because they safely got over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._ It would be unnecessary, as well as painful, to mark every step of the progress of the young Pilgrim through the last stage of his earthly journey. He had no mental doubts or gloom; his mind was calm and unclouded, sometimes so vividly realizing the joy set before him that bodily pain seemed almost forgotten. Often he appeared buried in thought, as though his spirit were already holding converse with things unseen, before quitting the frail suffering body. “Charles,” said he one night to his brother, who sat bathing his temples with vinegar and water, “how gently and lovingly the picture of my mother seems to look on me now. Perhaps she is waiting to welcome me on the blissful shore, where there is no more parting and pain. You will lay me in the vault beside her.” Charles breathed a heavy sigh. “I have been thinking of that monument,” continued Ernest, “so strangely prepared for the living. But the lines upon it could never suit me now—‘the mists of earth’ have long since stained ‘the snow-flake.’” “It is more spotless than ever,” whispered Charles: “is it not written, _Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool_?” “Yes,” murmured the sufferer; “Jesus can present sinners faultless before the presence of his Father. He has _loved us, and washed us in His own precious blood_. This is all my hope.” After a short silence, he continued—“My eyes are heavy with long waking, dear Charley. I wish that I could hear you sing to me once more; I feel as though it would soothe this dull pain.” “I do not think that I could sing now.” “Not one little hymn—my favourite hymn? But if the effort pains you, do not try.” But Charles did try, though with unsteady voice, whose tones sounded strange to himself. In the quiet night, with no listener near but one sufferer on earth, and the happy angels above, he sang this simple evening hymn:— HYMN. After labour, how sweet is rest! Gently the weary eyelids close; As the infant sleeps on its mother’s breast, The child of God may in peace repose. Whether we sleep, or whether we wake, We are His who gave His life for our sake. He to whom darkness is as light, Tenderly guards His slumbering sheep; The Shepherd watches His flock by night, The feeble lambs He will safely keep. Whether we sleep, or whether we wake, We are His who gave His life for our sake.