Mrs. Gore glided silently to the door with her finger upon her lips. "She sleeps still," she whispered, and gently drew her uncle to a corner of the room which opened into the sick-chamber, that they might converse in low tones without disturbing the sufferer.
"Have you seen my poor boys?" inquired the mother.
The old gentleman, in a few brief words, recounted all that had passed.
"O uncle!" said the lady, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I feel as though I had sent my sons into a furnace of temptation! But how could I avoid it? I could not safely have then here—there was no time to form other arrangements—and yet, there is a burden on my soul."
"'Cast thy burden on the Lord, He will sustain thee'!" replied her uncle, taking her hand into both of his own.
"O dear uncle! You are ever ready to comfort others, even when you must most need comfort yourself. I know, too well I know, what you must be suffering now; but you are so firm, so full of Christian courage!"
"No, my daughter," faltered the old man, while tears fast coursed each other down his pale cheek. "I am like a poor, storm-tossed, helpless wanderer, ready to sink in these waves of trouble; but I yet hear my Saviour's voice in the storm—'It is I, be not afraid'!"
Mrs. Gore was one of those gentle beings, who, like creeping plants, so closely, fondly cling round the objects of their tender affection, that existence itself appears wrapped up in theirs. Quiet, retiring, even to timidity, her husband and her children had formed her little world, and on earth she sought nothing beyond. Her delicate features, her gentle, sweet smile, bore impress of goodness which even strangers could not mistake; but those who knew her best were alone aware of the firmness, the self-devotion, in the character of one whom religious principle, like a guiding star, directed in the path of life. Gentle in manner, timid in nature, duty or affection could nerve her to courage; and afraid of infection as she from childhood had been, and eager as she felt to welcome home her boys, without a murmur she was ready to forego the joy and meet the danger, for she felt that God had marked out the course she should pursue.
But to a spirit like hers, the illness of a loved one was a trial peculiarly severe; while her tenderness of conscience and dread of evil rendered her painfully anxious for her sons. "One may bear personal trials firmly," said the tender mother, sitting down and resting her head on her hand, "but to see those whom we love suffer, and not be able to relieve them—to see them in peril, and not be able to succour them."
"We must trust them," said Mr. Presgrave more hopefully and firmly, "to Him who loves them yet better than we do. We can aid them still by fervent prayer to Him who orders all things in heaven and earth; and, like the friends of the paralytic man, lay our loved ones 'at the feet of Jesus'!"