“And how long do the doctors think that this will last?”
“Not many days,” replied Mr. Ewart, in a tone scarcely audible.
Again there was a long solemn silence.
“I thank you for telling me this,” said Ernest at last. “I little thought that I was so near the end of my pilgrimage—that I was so very near my rest. I have often wondered,” he added faintly, “how I should meet this hour—whether in joy, or in trouble and fear. I feel little of either just now—perhaps because I am weak and in pain—but a quiet trust in my Saviour, because, however sinful I have been, I know, I feel that I love Him!”
There are many lying on a sick-bed, who could hardly give a reason for the hope that is in them—whose feeble minds have scarcely power to grasp the simplest text—to whom it would be impossible to review their past lives; but who can yet rest calmly and securely on the thought, “Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!”
After a while, the sufferer spoke again.
“Where is Charley? Why is he not with me?”
“It was feared that his grief might agitate you.”
“Poor dear Charley!” said Ernest with tenderness; “it will be a pleasure to him now to think that we always have loved one another. But I should greatly like to see him; I have so much to say to him before we part.”
“I will call him,” said Mr. Ewart, rising.