CHAPTER III. - My BABES IN HEAVEN.

 

I GLANCED eagerly at the open doorway, heard a springing, blithesome step, and a sweet little boy glided softly into the room: he paused when about midway, as though waiting until I should observe and recognize him.

 

This child died when but six months old, and, of course, in this well-grown boy of nine I could not recognize the babe of six months but he had his father's dark eyes, although his complexion was fair and his hair a golden­brown: the eyes alone told me plainly that he was my own child, for I had gazed into them hours at a time, when he was a wee babe, and could not forget their expression. There were the same eyes, the same forehead, the same sweet mouth. The nurse rose up, and my little Joey threw himself into my arms, crying:

 

"Mama-dear, sweet mama! Joey is so glad you have come," and he fondly stroked and kissed my hair, eyes, and cheeks; then nestled his dear head lovingly on my breast.

 

Ah! my man of six, whom I had left, could not compare with my man of nine, whom I had found.

 

When I had fondled and kissed my darling Joey to my heart's content, again raised my eyes and involuntarily looked toward the door. Two little cherubic forms stood there clasping each other's hands, their sweet eyes looking full into mine. They were little dimpled darlings, one four, and the other two years of age. I knew them at once. They were the two dear little girls who had died, one a few weeks after its birth, the other when but two months old.

 

Joey ran to the door and led the children toward me. My beautiful little darlings! the youngest with eyes of blue and flaxen hair, the elder with brown eyes and dark auburn hair. I took them both on my knees and caressed them until my mother heart was once more filled with joy.

 

"Ah! my three beautiful babes who were lost, but found once more!"

 

If a mother on earth would like to know how I felt, let her imagine her little innocents lost in a deep, dark forest, filled with wild beasts, her soul racked and tortured with fear—"perhaps they were starving, perhaps torn by wild beasts: poor little lost wandering babes!"—and then let her imagine that after days, or, perhaps, months of anguish, she at last finds them uninjured, and clasps them to her bleeding and frenzied heart; she will realize something of my joy at finding my lost babes, besides, they were grown, and ten times lovelier than they had been before.

 

The little ones now left my side, and commenced some pretty, noiseless play near the open window. I know that my face was absolutely beaming with joy', as, once more, my eyes rested on my nurse. She was gazing at me with a mysterious smile, at the same time she slowly untied and removed her large, white apron; she then raised her hands to her head and took off the lace cap, shook down her long auburn curls, and, behold! my darling, sweet sister, Annie, was revealed to my astonished gaze.

 

I arose from my chair in my great surprise, and we mutually clasped each other in a warm and fond embrace. My darling sister had been dead about ten years. She was only sixteen when she died. She was older and far more beautiful now, yet the same sweet Annie as formerly.

 

When I became a little calmer we again seated ourselves, for I longed to have her talk to me.

 

"You are much happier now, dear Mary," she said, "than you were a short time ago. Darling, you are just peeping through the gates of heaven! Would you not rather clasp these dear, lost babes to your heart than to behold the saints? There will be time enough for that in the future. And, would you not rather see me, your virgin sister, than to behold the one who has been called the holy virgin? Am I not nearer to you than she could possibly be—she whom you never saw—she who lived more than eighteen hundred years ago, and was only one of millions of other mothers? and really, dear Mary, was only a mother like yourself. Are you not as blessed as she possibly could have been? Then, again, dear sister, why should she be called the blessed virgin and worshipped as such, when she was a wife and the mother of at least six children, and lived to be quite old; for Jesus was more than thirty-three years of age at the time of his crucifixion, and she was yet alive and well: we are not even informed when she died. Certainly, Mary, she was old enough to be your mother when last we hear of her. How foolish and absurd to call an old woman, the mother of a large family, the holy virgin, and fall down and worship her. Every pure and right heart holds a worshipful feeling toward a blessed mother, let her be whom she may, but it is senseless to worship Mary, the mother of Jesus, as a holy virgin."

 

I sat with my hands folded in my lap, my eyes fixed intently on my beautiful sister's face. Her words could not be gainsaid. Were they not true?

 

"Then, Annie," I at length asked, "is there no heaven, no hell, no purgatory?"

 

"Yes, Mary," she replied; "in one sense all these things exist, but not in the way you and I were taught to think when we lived on earth. Darling sister, heaven, hell, and purgatory, are conditions, not places. When you first awoke in this life, you were very unhappy to think you were dead and had lost your husband and children: in one sense that was hell to you: although you were in this beautiful room yet you were in hell or unhappiness, for unhappiness is all the hell there is, and hell is unhappiness: you are now in purgatory, or an intermediate state between hell and heaven, for heaven is happiness, and you are not yet happy. Heaven is yet in store for you, my sweet sister, and heaven can be in this room as well as anywhere else."

 

All this, which my dear Annie was saying, seemed very strange to me, my education on earth had been so entirely different; yet, I much preferred to be here with my lost children, my sweet sister, together with the prospect which she had held out to me that I could go back to the earth, visit my darling babies and my dear husband.!

 

"Annie," I questioned, "can we take these dear little ones with us, when we return?

 

We can do so if we wish, she replied; "but I think, dearest Mary, we had better leave them here until our return. You are very weak yet, and it will require all my strength to aid you: they shall go with us at another time, after you get stronger."

 

"And will my precious children be safe here, all by themselves?"

 

Annie smiled, giving me a peculiar glance

 

"Safe?" she said. What do you think could happen to them?

 

My mind ran swiftly over the list of accidents, which mothers usually fear when called upon to leave their little ones alone, the oldest not being more than nine years of age. I glanced about the room, thinking of fire;, and, then, perhaps, there were stairs down which they might fall; there might be knives or other sharp instruments wherewith they might cut themselves; they might wander off and get lost. There might be, for all I knew, water in which they might get drowned. These thoughts ran like lightning through my mind, yet I had not spoken them to Annie. It seemed to make no difference, however: she smiled sweetly and stroked my hair softly.

 

"Mary," she said, gently; "you forget that a spirit cannot be injured. These dear little ones are spirits now, they cannot be injured. Fire cannot harm them, knives cannot cut them, neither can they be drowned. Does it not make you happier, my sweet sister, to feel that they cannot be hurt? It removes a load of care from the mind, does it not? and that is a little step nearer heaven."

"Yes," was my reply. "But, still, my little darlings on the earth might meet with all those accidents."

"True," she replied and if they were to meet with any of them, another sweet babe would be here with you and its brother and sisters. It might also learn to love its auntie a little," and she gave me a roguish glance, pinched my cheek softly, and kissed my lips.

"Why, so they would, Annie!" I said, my eyes widening slightly in mild surprise.

I knew this before, still the fact was presented to my mind in a different way. It began to dawn upon me that I really had lost nothing, but gained a great deal; still, I was looking through a glass darkly. Things were not clear yet.

Joey now came up to me.

"Mama," he asked, "can we go out to play, my little sisters and I?

The two little girls were now standing at my knees, their sweet, bright eyes fixed on mine. I caught them in my arms, pressing them rapturously to my heart. They were exceedingly beautiful. They kissed, and fondled me with their little hands, and Joey laid his noble head against my arm. I glanced at Annie. She smiled a gentle assent, and I said:

"Yes; darlings. You may go if you want to," and they ran out of the door with joyous, playful laughter.

"Wouldn't you like to see the children at their play, Mary?" asked Annie.

That desire had just entered my mind.

"Am I strong and well enough to go out of doors?" I asked.

My mind was still clouded with earthly conditions, had not yet outgrown my weakness.

"Not quite strong enough yet, my sweet sister, but you are rapidly getting well. Let me wheel this easy-chair to the window, where you will have a nice view of the outdoor world, and at the same time observe the children at their play."

She placed her hands on the back, of my chair, pushing it gently toward the window. It was a very large oriel window. She wheeled the chair into a position so that I could look in all directions, excepting backward, and then raised each sash. Sweet, fresh air struck my face, which seemed the very elixir of life, odoriferous with the perfume of flowers and balsamic pines. I drew long inspirations, and with each breath my spirits rose, my heart bounded with renewed health and joyous hope. The fresh breeze wafted itself all through my unbound hair, lifting and waving it about until it seemed as though each hair was instinct with life and subtle perfume.

 

I now allowed my eyes to rove around over the beautiful landscape, and if this were purgatory, or the intermediate state, surely, what must heaven be?

 

I saw the children playing near a fountain, in a beautiful garden filled with flowers, directly in front of the window,—and—goodness! What was that creature playing with them? Could it be possible? I turned, and looked at Annie in the utmost astonishment.

 

"Annie—Annie!" I cried, in great confusion. "Am I dreaming, or is that a dog I see? and look, sister; there are ever so many birds flying around out there! See that Bird of

 

Paradise perched on Joey's shoulder! O! surely, it all must be a dream. I must try and waken myself: yet the dream is so sweet I really don't want to."

 

I had covered my face with my hands as I said this, for I could not believe in its reality.

 

Annie stroked my head softly, and patted my shoulder.

 

"Mary, darling," she said, "you are not dreaming. It is real. You have been taught to believe that nothing but man was immortal. What you have been taught about the immortal country is nearly all wrong. People in the earth-life have been looking through a glass darkly. Mary, all life is immortal in whatever form it may appear. The flowers, the birds, the animals, are all immortal. Look up, sweet sister. There is no death. Every beautiful thing that you have ever seen on earth you will find here. Did you think that earth could boast of more life and beauty than heaven? Earth is a small type of the grandeur and beauty of heaven."

 

I clasped Annie's hand within my own to gain courage and strength. These truths, at first, had a stunning effect on me, for my mind had never even conceived of things as they were, and, therefore, they astounded me. Again I looked. The children were playing, laughing, and shouting joyously; the little dog was barking and gamboling with them; the beautiful birds were flying about, perching on their heads and shoulders; the little girls were holding some of the most beautiful of them out on their fingers, their little faces wreathed in happy smiles. Presently, a small black pony, with golden trappings, trotted up

 

to Joey, laying his nose down on the boy's shoulders as though beseeching him. In a second Joey was on his back and off. The pony went in an undulating graceful lope.

 

"O, my boy—my beautiful boy!"

 

My heart swelled with love and pride. The child appeared to be clothed in black velvet, and perched on his flying curls was a little cap tasselled with gold. I watched him until he had ridden far out of my sight.

 

The two little girls were looking straight into my eyes, clapping their hands and shouting gleefully. To see my lost darlings so happy, made me as happy as themselves.

 

Presently, they came running in, their little hands filled with flowers, which they laid on my lap.

 

"Mama," said Agnes, the older of the two little girls, "Joey is a boy; he don't like to stay with little girls always, if they are his sisters, and he has gone to ride on Nobby's back. Nobby is Joey's little pony, mama."

 

The little dog entered with the girls, and stood, his eyes fixed in doggish fashion on mine, as though he would like to become acquainted with me. I involuntarily put out my hand. He jumped Lip with his fore-paws resting on my knees, lapped my hand, and presently I gained courage to pat his head, which seemed to please him as much as it would any pet dog on the earth.

 

"Mama," said Agnes, "can you spare us a little while? We want to go back to school."

 

"What can you mean, my darling? You don't go to school here, do you?"

 

"Why, yes, mama;—we go to school. We live in a school. Can we go now? We will come and see you again, just when you want us."

 

I glanced at Annie. Surprises would never cease, I thought.

 

"Mary," she said, "it is just as necessary that children should be taught here, as it is on the earth. Children do not remain children here, for they grow, their little minds develop, and they need schools and teachers as much, perhaps more, than they do on earth."