“It wasn’t very strange,” said Fleda.
“The stars made me think of heaven, and grandpa’s
being there, and then I thought how he was ready to
go there and that made him ready to die—”
“I wouldn’t think of such things, Elfie,”
said Mr. Carleton after a few minutes.
“Why not, sir?” said Fleda quickly.
“I don’t think they are good for you.”
“But Mr. Carleton,” said Fleda gently,—“if
I don’t think about it, how shall I ever
be ready to die?”
“It is not fit for you,” said he, evading
the question,—“it is not necessary
now,—there’s time enough. You
are a little body and should have none but gay thoughts.”
“But Mr. Carleton,” said Fleda with timid
earnestness,—“don’t you think
one could have gay thoughts better if one knew one
was ready to die?”
“What makes a person ready to die, Elfie?”
said her friend, disliking to ask the question, but
yet more unable to answer hers, and curious to hear
what she would say.
“O—to be a Christian,” said
Fleda.
“But I have seen Christians,” said Mr.
Carleton, “who were no more ready to die than
other people.”
“Then they were make-believe Christians,”
said Fleda decidedly.
“What makes you think so?” said her friend,
carefully guarding his countenance from anything like
a smile.
“Because,” said Fleda, “grandpa
was ready, and my father was ready, and my mother
too; and I know it was because they were Christians.”
“Perhaps your kind of Christians are different
from my kind,” said Mr. Carleton, carrying on
the conversation half in spite of himself. “What
do you mean by a Christian, Elfie?”
“Why, what the Bible means,” said Fleda,
looking at him with innocent earnestness.
Mr. Carleton was ashamed to tell her he did not know
what that was, or he was unwilling to say what he
felt would trouble the happy confidence she had in
him. He was silent; but as they rode on, a bitter
wish crossed his mind that he could have the simple
purity of the little child in his arms; and he thought
he would give his broad acres supposing it possible
that religion could be true,—in exchange
for that free happy spirit that looks up to all its
possessions in heaven.
Starres are poore books and oftentimes
do misse;
This book of starres lights to eternall
blisse.
George Herber.
The voyage across the Atlantic was not, in itself,
at all notable. The first half of the passage
was extremely unquiet, and most of the passengers
uncomfortable to match. Then the weather cleared;
and the rest of the way, though lengthened out a good
deal by the tricks of the wind, was very fair and
pleasant.
Fifteen days of tossing and sea-sickness had brought
little Fleda to look like the ghost of herself.
So soon as the weather changed and sky and sea were
looking gentle again, Mr. Carleton had a mattress and
cushions laid in a sheltered corner of the deck for
her, and carried her up. She had hardly any more
strength than a baby.
