Pass in! pass
in! behold this wonder."
Within, Grandma Keeler stood with closed eyes and folded hands. Her
cheeks were wet. She wore a heavenly, trustful expression of countenance.
Her lips moved as if in prayer.
Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow rose in her place--majestic and weird she looked,
like some old Eastern prophetess, a grand forecasting in her shadowy
eyes.
"Gether in the sheaves," she began; "the bright sheaves, early ripe and
ready for the harvestin'; and begrudge not the Master of His harvestin'.
Why, O Lord, Lord, this sheaf, while there be them that stand, late
harvest day, bowed and witherin' in the cornfield? Because He reckons not
o' time. Glory, glory, to the Lord o' the harvestin'! But gether in for
me, He says, my bright sheaves, early ripe! my sheaves o' the golden
wine!
"It was the night but two before my grandson died, I seen a death-sign in
a dream, and so I speaks to my son's wife, but 'Fear you not,' I says;
'it was the blessed sign o' blessed death;' and thought o' some one old
and helpless, sick maybe, gettin' release thereby. Why this sheaf, O
Lord?--Glory, glory, to the Lord o' the harvestin'! For I dreamt there
was a bird ketched in my room, and flutterin' here and there, and beatin'
'ginst the window with its wings.
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