On, blest Immortal, on, through boundless space,
   And stand with thy Redeemer face to face;
         And stand before thy God!
         Life's weary work is o'er,
         Thou art of earth no more;
No more art trammelled by the oppressive clay,
         But tread'st with winged ease
         The high acclivities
Of truths sublime, up Heaven's crystalline way.
         Here no bootless quest;
         This city's name is Rest;
         Here shall no fear appal;
         Here love is all in all;
Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire;
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire.
         Lift, lift thy wond'ring eyes!
         Yonder is Paradise,
         And this fair shining band
         Are spirits of thy land!
And these who throng to meet thee are thy kin,
Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin!
—The city's gates unfold—enter, oh! enter in!

THE SICKNESS AND HEALTH OF
THE PEOPLE OF BLEABURN.

IN THREE PARTS.—CHAPTER III.

MR. FINCH was standing in front of his
bookcase, deeply occupied in ascertaining a
point in ecclesiastical history, when he was
told that Ann Warrender wished to speak
to him.

"O dear! " he half-breathed out. He had
for some time been growing nervous about the
state of things at Bleaburn; and there was
nothing he now liked so little as to be obliged
to speak face to face with any of the people.
It was not all cowardice; though cowardice
made up sadly too much of it. He did not
very well know how to address the minds of
his people; and he felt that he could not do it
well. He was more fit for closet study than
for the duties of a parish priest; and he
ought never to have been sent to Bleaburn.
Here he was, however; and there was Ann
Warrender waiting in the passage to speak
to him.

"Dear me! " said he, " I am really very busy
at this moment. Ask Ann Warrender if she
can come again to-morrow."

To-morrow would not do. Ann followed
the servant to the door of the study to say so.
Mr. Finch hastily asked her to wait a moment,
and shut the door behind the servant. He
unlocked a cupboard, took out a green bottle
and a wineglass, and fortified himself against
infection with a draught of something whose
scent betrayed him to Ann the moment the
door was again opened.

"Come in," said he, when the cupboard was
locked.

"Will you please come, sir, and see John
Billiter? He is not far from death; he
asked for you just now; so I said I would
step for you."

"Billiter! The fever has been very fatal in
that house, has it not? Did not he lose two
children last week?"

"Yes, sir; and my father thinks the other
two are beginning to sicken. I'm sure I don't
know what will become of them. I saw Mrs.
Billiter stagger as she crossed the room just
now; and she does not seem, somehow, to be
altogether like herself this morning. That
looks as if she were beginning. But if you
will come and pray with them, Sir, that is the
comfort they say they want."

"Does your father allow you to go to an
infected house like that? " asked Mr. Finch.
"And does he go himself?"

Ann looked surprised, and said she did not
see what else could be done. There was no
one but her father who could lift John Billiter,
or turn him in his bed; and as for her, she
was the only one that Mrs. Billiter had to
look to, day and night. The Good Lady went
in very often, and did all she could; but she
was wanted in so many places, besides having
her hands full with the Johnsons, that she
could only come in and direct and cheer them,
every few hours. She desired to be sent for
at any time, night or day; and they did send
when they were particularly distressed, or at
a loss; but for regular watching and nursing,
Ann said the Billiters had no one to depend
on but herself. She could not stay talking
now, however. How soon might she say that
Mr. Finch would come?

Mr. Finch was now walking up and down
the room. He said he would consider, and
let her know as soon as he could.

"John Billiter is as bad as can be, Sir. He
must be very near his end."

"Ah! well; you shall hear from me very
soon."

As Ann went away, she wondered what
could be the impediment to Mr. Finch's going
with her. He, meantime, roused his mind to
undertake a great argument of duty. It was
with a sense of complacency, even of elevation,
that he now set himself to work to
consider of his duty—determined to do it when
his mind was made up.

He afterwards declared that he went to
his chamber to be secure against interruption,
and there walked up and down for two hours
in meditation and prayer. He considered
that it had pleased God that he should be
the only son of his mother, whose whole life
would be desolate if he should die. He
thought of Ellen Price, feeling almost sure
that she would marry him whenever he felt
justified in asking her; and he considered
what a life of happiness she would lose if he
should die. He remembered that his praying
with the sick would not affect life on the one
side, while it might on the other. The longer
he thought of Ellen Price and of his mother,
and of all that he might do if he lived, the
more clear did his duty seem to himself to
become. At the end of the two hours, he was
obliged to bring his meditations to a conclusion;
for Ann Warrender's father had been
waiting for some time to speak to him, and
would then wait no longer.