[Betty’s Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin’s Farm; and The First Christmas by Harriet Beecher Stowe]@TWC D-Link book
Betty’s Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin’s Farm; and The First Christmas

CHAPTER III
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They will never know what a church is, such as they are in old England, with fine old windows like the clouds, and rainbows, and great wonderful arches like the very skies above us, and the brave music with the old organs rolling and the boys marching in white garments and singing so as should draw the very heart out of one.

All this we have left behind in old England--ah! well a day! well a day!" "Oh, but, Margery," said Mary Winslow, "we have a 'better country' than old England, where the saints and angels are keeping Christmas; we confess that we are strangers and pilgrims on earth." And Rose Standish immediately added the familiar quotation from the Geneva Bible: "For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.
For if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out they had leisure to have returned.

But now they desire a better--that is, an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called their God." The fair young face glowed as she repeated the heroic words, for already, though she knew it not, Rose Standish was feeling the approaching sphere of the angel life.

Strong in spirit, as delicate in frame, she had given herself and drawn her martial husband to the support of a great and noble cause; but while the spirit was ready, the flesh was weak, and even at that moment her name was written in the Lamb's Book to enter the higher life, in one short month's time from that Christmas.
Only one month of sweetness and perfume was that sweet rose to shed over the hard and troubled life of the pilgrims, for the saints and angels loved her, and were from day to day gently untying mortal bands to draw her to themselves.

Yet was there nothing about her of mournfulness; on the contrary, she was ever alert and bright, with a ready tongue to cheer and a helpful hand to do; and, seeing the sadness that seemed stealing over Mary Winslow, she struck another key, and, catching little Love up in her arms, said cheerily, "Come hither, pretty one, and Rose will sing thee a brave carol for Christmas.


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