“And they think that I’ll be quite well soon?” The nervous quiver in the poor girl’s voice betrayed her own doubt on the subject.
“You must keep very quiet, and not excite yourself, if you wish to be quite well,” said Clemence evasively.
“But what did they say? I wish to know.” Louisa made a vain effort to raise herself in the bed.
“They said,—Dr. Howard said, that your youth was greatly in your favour.”
“But he did not, he did not think me very ill?”
“He thought you ill, dear Louisa”—as Clemence spoke, she gently laid her hand on that of the sufferer; “but—”
“But not dying—not dying!” The agitated tongue could scarcely articulate the words, while the gaze of the glassy eye became yet more distressingly intense.
Clemence felt the moment exceedingly painful. She dared not deceive a soul which was now, perhaps, on the point of being launched into the unfathomable sea; and yet, her dread lest she should by one word hasten the event which she dreaded, almost overcame her courage. “We will pray that your life may be long spared, dear Louisa,” was her reply; “all is in the hands of our merciful Lord; He can restore you to health, and make even this trial a blessing.”
“I can’t pray,” said Louisa, gloomily. “I never thought much upon God in my health—I cannot, dare not think of Him now. It is so terrible, so terrible to die!” She grasped Clemence’s hand convulsively.
“And yet some have found it sweet to die.”