# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 34

"Love, which proclaims the human, bids thee know A truth more lofty in thy lowliest hour Than shallow glory taught to human power,— What's human is immortal!"
June came again,—June with its wealth of roses and lovely green, its clear skies and breezy nights, bringing scarcely less of joy and gladness, beauty and song to the outward world than to the loving and happy spirits of Orange Grove. The whole family were planning an excursion to the sea-side during a few weeks of the hottest season, which promised quite a change for them, as they rarely felt any inducement strong enough to tempt them away from their own pleasant home. Lilly appeared to feel the most care of any one about going, and really looked quite sad at the thought of leaving the two little kittens and the rabbit, whose frolics together amused her for hours, and sometimes caused her to be quite noisy as she clapped her hands and shouted at the retaliation of old puss if they unceremoniously broke in upon her meditations when not disposed to join in their levity, though she said she thought it was a prettier sight to see her play with them. Then who would keep the chickens, also her pets, out of her garden, which had received quite an addition to its former dimensions, in fulfillment of a promise her ​father made the previous summer because she wanted "vegables" as well as flowers. Finally every thing was settled to her satisfaction. Kate promised to feed the kittens and take care of the garden, and she looked forward to the anticipated journey with as much joy as any of them, provided they did not go before her peas were large enough to eat, as she was to have a little dinner party then, to be served from her own garden. There was no end to her questions about the probable growth of everything during their absence, asking her father to drive in a stake before they left, about as high as he thought her corn would reach when they returned, to see how good he was for guessing. The oats she thought might be quite ripe so she could feed them to the horse. "Oh father, what if they should all dry up and wither before I get back; then I should wish I had took a little sketch of my garden," said she laughing and jumping at the novelty of the idea.
But one bright summer morning, when the air resounded with the song of birds, and the hum of bright winged insects testified to the gladness of their short life; when the sun's penetrating rays quickened the earth's vegetation with the promise of golden harvests, the Heavenly Reaper came to gather in his more than golden treasure which needed neither summer rain nor autumn sun to perfect it for his hands. Lilly, the May-flower, sickened and died. No skill could save her, no rending cry of anguish could wrest her from death's grasp. Her mission on earth was ended, angels waited to bear her spirit joyfully to the other shore, and beautifully, ​lovingly, she took her flight. Towards noon she came to her mother and laid her head in her lap, saying "Mother, will you please take me up, I'm so tired!"
A high fever already coursed through her veins, and she fell a victim to a mortal disease very prevalent among children that summer; but she had always been so healthy not one of the family had thought of feeling any anxiety for her. Little were they aware how firmly their affections were centred in her, or how important a part she formed of every plan for the future. If the thought ever suggested itself that she might not live, it was banished with a feeling akin to that a child feels for a mother, who, associated with every moment of life, and sharing every joy and sorrow as no other person can, forms such an essential part of existence, that the thought of parting with her is as unwelcome as a nightmare dream.
Lilly did not suffer as much as some. During most of the time she lay in a languid state, smiling faintly when spoken to, and seldom making an effort to speak. She died in her father's arms, and the last words she said were, "Father, I cannot see you now; but you can see my picture."
That picture! The death Angel touched it and straightway it was transfigured into a celestial beauty earthly hands could not impart, nor earthly passions take away. But who shall describe that father's anguish! During her sickness he had scarcely eaten or slept, and his nervous system was now prostrated. As long as there was life he felt there was hope, and ​even after the vital spark had fled he reluctantly gave her up, not until Rosalind whispered, "Shall we not restore unto God his own?"
Her fortitude through it all was remarkable. She was redeeming the pledge made unto God at the time of her marriage. If her experience had taught her anything it was that she had no right to assume any voluntary relation that should subject her to the vicissitudes of life and death, unless willing to meet them more submissively than she had done the loss of her father. Often had she renewed this pledge, as day by day she watched the unfolding of this fair flower, and asked herself the question, "If this treasure should be called for at my hands, could I give her up?"
Then leaving a kiss on that innocent brow she strove within herself to feel that she was only lent, not given. She marvelled at her own strength in this hour of trial, but, was anything ever asked of God in prayer that was not granted? All the exquisite tenderness of her nature burst forth, and she turned from the dead now at rest to the living who needed her consolation and support, banishing her own grief in ministering unto others. In her self-forgetfulness lay her strength, and the sight of her husband's sorrow made her rise above her own.
Mrs. Claremont was the animating spirit of the house. So cheerfully she set about the performance of every duty, and attended to all that had been Lilly's special care, those parents felt that it would have been an act of ingratitude to have appeared otherwise than cheerful in her presence. From the ​little garden she gathered powers to make a wreath to encircle her head, and an opening white rosebud to place in her hand, while at the head she placed the little vase that had been supplied with a boquet throughout the season, arranged by Lilly's own hands, and which was still preserved in its old place on her mother's work-table, and as tenderly cared for by Mrs. Claremont.
What sight is more touchingly beautiful than that of an infant shrouded for the tomb? How innocent is the expression of every feature! How symbolic the little hands, of a perfect trust in the great Father's watchful care over all, as they repose so naturally on the little bosom that will never again heave in anguish or shake with laughter.
The family circle seems scarcely complete without the presence of an angel child. While others bring care and anxiety, if not sorrow to their parents, one they may always point to as pure and undefiled, ministering in the Father's kingdom, to win them from the attractions of this world through this nearer glimpse of heaven, sometimes coming in the silent watches of the night, or sanctifying daily toil with the hallowed breath of inspiration. Not alone through joy and sunshine, but through pain and tears, love is strengthened; and we are false to the highest teachings of revelation, if for every tie that is severed, we do not make propitiation to the living by fresh efforts to raise the standard of family devotion above the petty bickerings and jealousies which are born of the passions, and can have no affinity with the higher faculties of the soul that are to fit her for the im​mortal destiny for which she was created and toward which she is tending.
Human tears are God's dew-drops, not always the symbol of sadness, but the workings of the most sacred emotions, which are thus softened and purified until the soul responds with the most touching sincerity. The Father's will be done!
Though Mr. Livingston tried hard to appear reconciled he could not conceal the heavy grief that settled upon his spirits. He sought to banish it by close application to his pencil, but the little silky brown head claimed admission there, and drove all other subjects from his mind. He journeyed, but the infinite charm that had been wont to steal over his senses when he gave himself up to revelry among the scenes of nature, had suddenly departed, and in its stead came another charm, one of peculiar sacredness, revealing an angel presence ever flitting before him and dulling his senses to the perception of other objects. Accompanied by Rosalind, it was only in her society that he found any consolation, either at home or abroad. She always met him with a cheerful smile which elicited one in return, and that grief must be very obdurate which will not give way in the presence of two smiling faces.
It was a hallowed hour in that lonely home, one of tender and sacred memory; when another form constantly glided before and whispered to them words of the most endearing love. Whether at home or abroad, on the velvet turf or in the dusty street, wherever the foot pressed or the eye rested, the little silky brown head came to remind them of ​other days and turn their thoughts heavenward whither she called them.
But, "'Tis the work Of many a tear, and of many a prayer, To win the heart back from an infant gone."
At times the floods of human sorrow dashed in overwhelming surges against the anchor they thought was moored fast in the peaceful waters of a wise resignation. And the garden; O Earth, how canst thou smile on in such bitter mockery of human wo? Ah, it is a decree of God's own ordination, whereby, if a seed die it shall rise again and put forth new verdure, prophetic also of the resurrection of every joy in that immortal sphere toward which all are hastening.
There was another upon whom Lilly's death fell as a heavy stroke of affliction, to whom Mrs. Claremont sought to administer all the consolation feeble words could convey; feeble indeed, for they fall so far short of what the soul craves at such times, that it is almost a mockery to utter them. And yet will all these little kind offices be treasured up in the storehouse of memory as precious mementoes which will not fail to be appreciated in the maturer wisdom of future years.
There are as many different kinds of affection in the world as there are different mental organizations. One kind is strong, ardent, full of enthusiasm and demonstration, like Rosalind. Another kind, just as strong, just as ardent, but so quiet and undemonstrative, as scarcely to reveal its existence until some shock threatens to rend asunder the very heartstrings ​of life, was illustrated in Milly. Isolated as she was in every human tie, her affection for Lilly had stirred her soul's depths as they were never stirred before. When sighing for one more touch of that little hand, one more gentle pressure of that soft cheek against her own, one more merry twinkle of those eyes before which sadness vanished like the misty morning vapors before the rising sun, Mrs. Claremont, divining her feelings, thus soliloquized, "Why shut up in the dark tomb all the rich blossoming of that young life? Why not permit it to exhale its fragrace among these numberless relics that need only its inspiring breath to consecrate them as joyous mementoes of the love and happiness this world has the capacity to confer, and the other world claims only to purify and perfect? She is leading us into the deep waters that we may gather thence its choicest pearls."
A new idea was suggested to Milly. She turned to her novel with a fresh interest, and felt the quickening of new powers, and revelations of a higher order of beauty for which those latent germs of undefined aspirations had struggled from her earliest memory to be developed into their highest capabilities. Very different from those labored effusions which excited Kate's facetious criticisms—the passages now coming from her pen were full of meaning and rich with inspiration. Lilly was no longer a departed spirit, but a presiding genius that stood between her and the pages of her book, ready to interpret those dark phases of human experience which for a time shut us out from the beauty and glory of this out​ward world that the inner vision may become clearer, when, purified and sanctified, clothed, and in our right mind, we may sit down at the right hand of Jesus, accepting his condition, "That unless we become like one of these little ones, we can in no wise enter the kingdom of heaven."
But as novels, even of the highest order, should serve only as recreation, instead of food for the mind, there is a higher and more practical work to be engaged in than writing them, if it is only to carry out the ideas presented, and to this work Milly was destined. The rich poetry of that inner life was to burst forth in deeds more beautiful than any sketches flowing from her pen; not to be compressed within the mute pages of a book, which, however, served a high purpose as a precept for the rule of her life. She had no sooner written it than the high standard she had presented struck her as being too visionary for realization, and fearing the strong pictures she had drawn of the strength and omnipotence of affection had received too high a coloring from her own sensitive organization, it met with the fate so often assigned to real merit, in never being permitted to enrich the world with its treasures of thought, but they were nevertheless incorporated into her daily life and she experienced the blessed consolation of knowing that she had neither dreamed idly nor turned into a mere visionary enthusiast.