In Memory

IN MEMORY. BY W. J. SLOAN. "And again, verily 1 say unto you, if a man marry a wife by my word, which is my law, and by the new and everlasting covenant, and it is sealed unto them by the Holy Spirit of promise, by him who is anointed, unto whom I have appointed this power, and the keys of this Priesthood, * * * it shall be done unto them in all things whatsoever my servant hath put upon them, in time, and through all eternity, and shall be of full force when they are out of the world; and they shall pass by the angels, and the Gods, which are set there, to their exaltion and glory in all things, as hath been sealed upon their heads, which glory shall be a fullness and a continuation of the seeds for ever and ever. Then shall they be Gods, because they have no end."—Doctrine and Covenants, Sec. 132: 19, 20. Ethel , from your home in the spirit land, will you for- give me for using your name and telling your life story? As I tell it, old memories haunt me, old scenes come back to my mind; scenes of pleasure, of doubt and of pain; even as your life was one of pleasant and happy thoughts, doubts, and a fatal decision, and then unhappiness, misery and death. As I tell the story, a pain is in my heart, a pain for you, dear friend; and yet, I seem to feel that, could you come back to this earth of ours, you would whisper the story I am going to tell, for it is your story; and, as I tell it, my spirit shall try to speak to your own, and I shall talk even as we would talk, were we side by side. I have not forgotten your childhood home, nor your parents whom I am told still live, though years have passed since my last visit; yet I know that your memory is held in love, forgiveness and pain. It was a good home, and they were true parents. It was with doubt that they looked upon your leaving the old home, but you were ambitious and felt that the old home did not offer enough, and so you left it; for what? because your father and mother had

IN MEMORY. 267 others depending upon them, and you ought to work to relieve their burden, you told yourself. Yet, your woman's nature asked for the dress, the finery which you saw other women wear, and which you knew your father could not furnish; and so you would furnish them by your own work. You parted from the old home, but you never wholly forgot it, nor its teachings. You came to the city; in memory, I see you now as I saw you then, young, sweet, pure. You remember, dear friend, how glad you were when we met, in the city, for you had a place to work; you were to be paid every week; money, your own, more than you could ever before call your own at any one time in your life, was to be yours every week; you could have dresses, hats, and the other things, which your girlish heart yearned for, the same as other girls had. And you had them, and ycu were worthy of all that can adorn woman. And yet, forgive me dear friend, but in your adornment of the outer self you forgot the inner self, the soul; do I wrong you? nay, I am only using your own words, as you told them to me in later life. Seeing the glitter, which you thought was gold, of city life, the old home and its environments had no further charm for you. The boys at home, who followed the plow and worked in the field, were good boys, you told yourself, as you told me, but too slow, and not up to 'snuff,' none of them for you; they might be all right in their place, and would make good husbands for the girls who stayed at home and knew no better than to marry them; But for you, it must be a city life, with its pleasures and excitements. And so you threw your net; wealth and social position was your object. That love which makes life worth living in this world, and far more in the great beyond, you forgot; to your innocent soul, the story was sweetly told; you trusted, although those who loved you best told you nay; for as you listened to the old, sweet story, you heard only one voice, that of the lover, and, under the spell, you forgot a life's teachings that there is but one love, one marriage, which ends not when death parts, but goes on forever. As you heard the story of love, that wondrous story, old yet ever new, you forgot that, "Love unchecked is a dangerous guide To wander at will by a fair girl's side." The old, sweet story, well told, won your heart; I seem to see

268 IMPR 0 VEMENT ERA. you now as I saw you when you told me of your choice, I seem to hear my voice, as I said to you: "I wish you every joy and happiness that life can bring to you." And yet, I said it with a pain in my heart, a doubt in my mind; for I felt that unl ?ss the teachings of home were wholly forgotten, or could be entirely thrown aside, which they cannot be by the true heart, my wish could only be fulfilled in a measure, a measure of a few years. You were happy, and I rejoiced in your happiness; you suffered, and in my heart I pitied you; and yet, I honored you, for you had not j or gotten. You thought, nay, you said, that there would be no quarrel when the day came for the children, your children, to choose their God; your God should be their God, you told yourself; the home teachings still lived. The years passed, the shouts of children filled the home, warmed your heart, made it love as it had never loved before, brought to your face a smile, to your lips a glad word, even when the body was, oh, so tired. Then came an hour in which the smile, the joys, were dead; ah, the pain, the agony of those wakeful nights and days, and then * * *. He, your hus- band, tried to cheer you, tried to make you forget, told you of those others who where left to comfort, and who needed your mother's care; nobly did you rise to the requirements; your voice was pleasant, your face wore a smile, even though a pain was at your heart. One day, a thought came, an echo of past teachings, the great eternity , your darling child; like a flood, the thought overpowered your mind; was he gone from you forever? and they who were left, when the time came to part with them, was it to be forever? You talked to him, tried to make him see as you saw, tried to make him understand your hope and faith, for you felt both, as you had never felt them before. He was kind, yet gently told you that this life ended all, that there was no beyond; and in your mind, you almost wished that you could believe as he did, and in your soul you prayed, that your old faith might not be shaken, though it was as fire to your mother's heart; hope and the past had joined hands. Again came weary nights and days of watching, and then —another little one was carried to rest. Then a phantom