and with noiseless
tread went out into the hall and left the living and the dead alone
together.

There was one more scene for Ester to endure that day. Late in the
afternoon, as she went to the closed room, there was bending over the
manly form a gray-haired old woman. By whose friendly hands she had
been permitted to enter, Ester did not stop to wonder. She had seen
her but once before, but she knew at a glance the worn, wrinkled face;
and, as if a picture of the scene hung before her, she saw that old,
queer form, leaning trustfully on the strong arm, lying nerveless now,
being carefully helped through the pushing throng--being reverently
cared for as if she had been his mother; and _she_, looking after the
two, had wondered if she should ever see them again. Now she stood
in the presence of them both, yet what an unmeasurable ocean rolled
between them! The faded, tearful eyes were raised to her face after
a moment, and a quivering voice spoke her thoughts aloud, rather than
addressed any body. "He gave his life for poor old useless me, and it
was such a beautiful life, and was needed, oh so much; but what am
I saying, God let it be him instead of me, who wanted so to go--and
after trusting him all along, am I, at my time of life, going to
murmur at him now? He came to see me only yesterday"--this in a more
natural tone of voice, addressed to Ester--"he told me good-by. He
said he was going a long journey with his wife; and now, may the dear
Savior help the poor darling, for he has gone his long journey without
her."

Ester waited to hear not another word. The heavy sense of pain because
of Abbie, which she had carried about with her through all that weary
day, had reached its height with that last sentence: "He has gone his
long journey without her."

She fled from the room, up the stairs, to the quiet little chamber,
which had been given to her for her hours of retirement, locked and
bolted the door, and commenced pacing up and down the room in agony of
soul.

It was not all because of Abbie that this pain knocked so steadily at
her heart, at least not all out of sympathy with her bitter sorrow.
There was a fearful tumult raging in her own soul; her last stronghold
had been shattered. Of late she had come to think that Abbie's
Christian life was but a sweet reflection of Mr. Foster's strong, true
soul; that she leaned not on Christ, but on the arm of flesh. She had
told herself very confidently that if _she_